


lacerate

by againstmygreeleaf



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood and Injury, Fake Character Death, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Minor Original Character(s), Near Death Experiences, Poisoning, Psychological Torture, Sickfic, Torture, Trans Female Pidge | Katie Holt, Violence, Voltron Whump Week 2017, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-16 18:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/againstmygreeleaf/pseuds/againstmygreeleaf
Summary: A collection of one-shots for Voltron Whump Week!1: Fever- Wherein Hunk's nausea is not caused by his anxiety.2: Hypothermia- Wherein Keith gets a taste of the Blue Lion's element.3: Near Death and/or Blood Loss- Wherein Pidge and Hunk find themselves in a tight spot.4:  Torture- Wherein Allura is set up and pays the price.5: Insomnia and/or Mental Illness- Prompt modified to be Mental Torment, essentially. Wherein Shiro perceives a series of particularly unfortunate events and much more.6: Poison- Wherein it's Pidge vs Nature.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So uh, VLD has a Whump Week. And I mean, I'm kinda late but I couldn't resist. Really didn't think I was gonna write any more for this fandom but I got sucked in, so here we are! Hopefully these are okay, I'm still kinda nervous writing for this fandom. Anyway, so like, this first chapter here is kind of crack, flavored with my odd sense of humor. There's American Dad references. And the fanon that Pidge is into cryptids because that is so cute, yes, I agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, VLD has a Whump Week. And I mean, I'm kinda late but I couldn't resist. Really didn't think I was gonna write any more for this fandom but I got sucked in, so here we are! Hopefully these are okay, I'm still kinda nervous writing for this fandom. Anyway, so like, this first chapter here is kind of crack!fic, flavored with my odd sense of humor. There's American Dad references. And the fanon that Pidge is into cryptids because that is so cute, yes, I agree.

Lance shuffles into the lounge, planning to chill out and maybe finish knitting Klaizap’s sweater, only to be swept up in chaos.

“Nope!” Pidge shouts as she rapidly yanks a cylindric part out of Hunk’s reach, swiveling around and hunching over it protectively. “I need this, go throw up on Keith!”

“Hey!” Keith backpedals out of range and swings himself over the back of the couch. “Just go somewhere else!”

Hunk turns around, seemingly intent on doing so, but Lance is still gawking in the doorway. Hands clapped over his mouth, he darts for this decorative space plant with flowers that look like tentacles, but Pidge’s urgent noise stops him short.

“Remember what happened last time!”

Right. The last time Hunk puked in a plant, the thing died a miserable death. Coran had been pretty pissed off, since it was some rare fruit tree from an extinct planet.

Apparently unable to hold it back any longer, Hunk doubles over and spills his stomach contents on the floor next to the plant. Lance winces, wrinkling his nose as the sour reek hits the air. Hunk vomits a second time, bracing his hand against the wall.

“What are you freaking out about this time?” Keith asks, frowning. “We don’t even have a mission today.”

“I don’t know!” Hunk snaps. “Everything, maybe? We’re in space! There isn’t always a specific reason anyway.”

“I’m gonna go get a mop,” Pidge sighs and sets her cylindric thing down, winding around Lance.

Lance makes his way over to Hunk and puts a hand on his back. “Look at me for a sec.”

Hunk compliantly turns to him and Lance peers intently, checking him out. Yeah, he looks off. His eyes are glassy and the top of his headband is damp with perspiration. Lance lays the back of his hand to his cheek and finds an uncomfortable, sticky heat.

“You feel pretty warm, buddy. I don’t think it’s your anxiety.”

Hunk blinks slowly. “Oh.”

“You’ve probably got some alien bug or something.” Lance takes his hand back.

“You think it’s fatal?” Hunk frets, going rigid with alarm and grasping at his hair. “Am I gonna melt or something?”

“You don’t look like you’re melting. Do you feel like you’re melting?”

“No.” Hunk’s shoulders slump. “I think it’s just my stomach.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Lance suggests.

Hunk casts an uncertain glance to the puddle of vomit on the floor.

“Pidge already went to get the mop.” Lance pats his shoulder. “We’ll take care of it, alright? You’re sick, man. Go lie down, I’ll bring you a garbage can in a little bit.”

“Okay…thanks.”

“No prob.” Lance waves him off and Hunk sidles around the couch, heading back to his room.

Keith straightens, looking after him warily. “Should I get Shiro or something?”

“Nah, I think it’s alright.” Lance rubs at the back of his neck. “Warn him, I guess, in case it’s something contagious floating around. But Hunk’s the easiest sick person to deal with ever. When he’s done throwing his guts up, he’ll just pass out and sleep through the whole thing like some hibernating bear. Or if the fever gets to him, he might wander around a little but he’ll always go back to bed if you steer him in the right direction.”

“You deal with this a lot?” Keith raises a brow.

“A couple times. We both got hit when the Death Flu was going around at the Garrison. I was too sick to go get him when he went wandering, so he ended up conking out in the simulator for almost three days.”

Keith squints thoughtfully. “You know, I vaguely remember that.”

“You started the whole thing, you were Patient Zero.” Lance scoffs.

“No way!” Keith fires a glare of disbelief and crosses his arms. “At least five people had it before I did.”

Coran bounds in before they can keep arguing about it, barreling past Lance to embrace his space plant. He makes a giddy noise in his throat and kisses one of its weird tentacle-petals. “Angioblax, you’re safe!”

Pidge is on his heels with the mop and bucket, her face pinched and eyes steeled in preparation. She motions for Lance to move aside but he takes the mop handle from her instead.

“I’ve got this.”

She blinks, gives a little shrug. “Sure thing, I’m not gonna fight you for puke duty.”

* * *

When Lance finishes cleaning up, he repossess the trash can in the kitchen and drags it to Hunk’s room, only to discover he’s a little too late. His friend is hunched over a piddling wet spot of bile on the floor, arms wrapped around his midsection.

“Again, huh?”

Hunk responds with a low groan.

“You want me to get you some water?”

“I just really want it to stop hurting.” He hisses through his teeth and he sounds _wrong_ , somehow, a fraught, startling kind of wrong.

This is when actual worry prickles along the nape of Lance’s neck.

“How bad is it?” he asks, crouching next to Hunk and studying his face as he puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Like my guts are being stabbed.” Hunk’s gaze darts wildly, liquid with fear. “It wasn’t this bad before, out of nowhere it got worse.”

Lance slides a hand under his bangs and bites back a hiss of his own as the silent inferno he finds blazes against his palm. It hasn’t been that long since he checked the first time, it’s crazy that the fever spiked this high this fast.

“You’re cooking in your skin.” Lance swallows and nervously licks his lips. “This could be serious, can you stand up?”

There isn’t any _could be_ about it. It’s serious. The worst feeling sits heavy in the pit of Lance’s gut and it sinks even deeper when Hunk shakes his head.

“Alright. I’ll go g—“

“Don’t leave me!” Hunk yelps, high and squeaky like a small dog getting kicked.

Lance takes a deep breath and tries to keep his own voice level. “You need help, man. If you can’t stand, I have to go get it.”

“I can stand,” Hunk decides shakily.

Lance almost wishes he wouldn’t try. He’d be faster by himself. But Hunk is freaking out and he’ll freak out even more if he’s left alone. A panic attack is definitely the last thing his friend needs right now, so he just bites his tongue and helps him struggle to his feet. The clumsy battle just to get him up hammers in how severe whatever this is actually is, and Lance’s own worry crests like a tidal wave in his too tight chest.

Hunk is in pain, real pain, written into his posture and keen in every tremble. Lance carefully coaxes his arm over his shoulders and keeps close for support. Copious fever heat radiates off of him and in their proximity, Lance feels like he’s being slow roasted.

“Good,” he encourages anyway. “There you go.”

Hunk’s gone gray but he nods and Lance helps him over the threshold. Their pace is sluggish and dragging, Hunk’s breaths shallow and quick.

“Maybe I am melting,” he croaks. “From the inside out.”

“Maybe,” Lance admits. “I don’t know what it is but you’re gonna be okay.”

“Alien parasite?” is his next frazzled guess. “It’s gonna eat all my organs and then when it’s full, it’s gonna burst out of my body and attack your face.”

“Pretty sure that’s from that movie I told Pidge not to let you watch,” Lance grumbles. “Try not to think stuff like that, you’re just going to scare yourself.”

“I’m already scared!”

“Right, I know,” he says apologetically. “Still, there’s no alien parasite eating your organs.”

Lance hopes there isn’t anyway. He has no proof that there’s not. There’s a ton of weird shit in space, alien parasites very possible among everything else.

“It feels like there is,” Hunk groans through gritted teeth and then he just drops, crashing to the floor and bringing Lance down with him. “It hurts too much, I can’t.”

Lance inhales a sharp breath, his stomach twisting anxiously. This is bad, majorly bad. They hadn’t even made it out of the hallway. Hunk folds in on himself, panting for breath between panicky animal whimpers. Lance needs to go. He needs to get up and race off like a track star because Hunk needs help now, _right now,_ but for an excruciatingly long moment he finds himself petrified.

“What’s going on?” A light, troubled voice calls out.

“Allura!” He spares a glance down the hall for all of a second before he turns back to Hunk. “Emergency!”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She comes sprinting, nearly tripping over her dress with the fluffy cloud of her hair streaking behind her. She sort of scrambles to a stop in front of them, her eyes growing wide as moons. 

“What happened to him!?”

“I don’t know!” Lance tosses his hands up. “He was throwing up a lot—“

“He always does that!”

“No, this is different!”

“Clearly!”

“Hurts,” Hunk squeaks out, rough and pleading.

“I know.” Lance hums a sympathetic note and sweeps some hair back from Hunk’s face, damp and sweaty against his fingers. “He’s bad off, Allura. He can barely move.”

She hastily nods, increasing her height and broadening enough to accommodate Hunk’s bulk. She handles him gingerly but he whimpers anyway. Allura’s ears twitch, lips parting in a soft gasp.

“Why is he so hot?”

“I’m right there with you, Princess, but now is really not the time to be admiring Hunk’s unfairly good looks.” Lance pinwheels his arms and urgently gestures down the hall.

“I meant temperately!” she snaps, her features screwed up in disconcertion as she gets a move on. Now that she’s taller the hem of her dress only just brushes her shins. It’s probably uncomfortably tight but at least she won’t trip and send the both of them spilling.

“I don’t know that either,” Lance admits, quickening his pace to match hers. “It’s not a good sign though.”

“Not used to being picked up,” Hunk mutters quietly, his voice tight and strained and physically paining Lance.

“Do you enjoy it?” Allura asks, forcing a levity in her own voice that doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Probably would if I wasn’t dying.” Hunk tucks his face into the crook of her neck and buries a groan into her collar.

“You’re not dying,” says Lance. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna figure out what’s going on and totally fix you up.”

Allura gives him a tense smile but he can tell she’s unnerved. Hunk throws up shortly before they make it to the infirmary, mostly on her but a little bit on himself. Allura gallantly refrains from flinching, her only acknowledgment a downward tug at the corner of her mouth. By the time she sets him down on a bed, the commotion has attracted pretty much everybody and Coran readily towels the mess off.

Pidge is the last to trot in, owlish with her eyes wide and her head tilted sideways. “What’s going on?”

“There’s an alien parasite devouring my guts, so I’m dying,” Hunk tells her, whining thinly.

“I’m not sure about that,” Shiro says, flesh hand planted against Hunk’s forehead. “So you’re burning up, you’re nauseous, and you’re hurting big time. Work with me, buddy, where exactly is the pain?”

“Side, I guess?” Hunk swallows, considering. “Kinda in my stomach but mostly my side now.”

“Shiro,” Keith states pointedly.

“Yeah.” Shiro spares him a glance, shifts his focus back to Hunk. “Okay. Your symptoms are a lot like mine when I had appendicitis. I think that’s what we’re dealing with here so I’m going to check, okay?”

Hunk nods compliantly. Shiro shifts Hunk’s protectively cupped hands out of the way and presses his own experimentally against his side. Hunk just clenches his teeth for a moment, but when Shiro lets go he makes this noise so awful, so utterly _hurt._  

“I know, I’m sorry.” Shiro raises his hands placatingly and takes a step back, guilt flashing in his eyes. “It got worse, right?”

Hunk nods again and Shiro sighs out.

“Yep, it’s appendicitis.”

“That’s better than an alien parasite,” Lance says, his alarming dialing down a bit. At least it was something familiar.

Familiar to the earthlings, anyway. Coran and Allura exchange bewildered glances.

“What exactly is appendicitis?” the princess asks, raising a brow.

“Humans have this nonessential organ called the appendix and sometimes it will spontaneously get inflamed and cause this.” Pidge gestures to Hunk and pushes the bridge of her glasses up her nose.

“What preposterous biology! Why do you have nonessential organs?” Coran huffs, agape.

“We don’t really, it’s just that one.” Pidge frowns at Hunk. “His is going to rupture.”

Allura's shoulders tense with apprehension.“Then what happens?”

“Well…Infection and death, I guess?” Pidge scratches her cheek. “General treatment is taking it out before it does that.”

There’s a long silence that hushes the room as the implications of this settle on the paladins, at least. None of them are surgeons. Coran and Allura know next to nothing about human organs, they’d probably cut him open and take his liver out, or something.

The grim gravity of the silence brings Hunk’s visible distress to a peak. He abruptly breaks into hyperventilation, rough breaths shallowly rushing in and out of him.

Shiro puts a steady hand on his shoulder. “Easy, easy. Try to relax before you hurt yourself more, Hunk.”

Hunk whips his head from side to side, already in the grip of panic and unable to pull himself out of it. The intensity of his breathing increases with feeble yelps of pain splicing through. Lance is at a loss, everybody seems to be. But Allura takes charge with a firmness in her gaze, physically scooping Hunk up for the second time today.

“Pod,” she declares.

Coran nods and briskly taps the panel for the closest cryo-pod, opening it up. Allura winds her way around.

“You’re fine,” she promises Hunk and even if he were able to reply, she doesn’t give him the time to. She fits him inside and Coran adjusts the settings, the glass sliding closed. Hunk’s eyes close with it and Allura lets out a heavy sigh as she turns back to everyone.

“I thought the pods didn’t work for stuff like that,” Keith says, echoing Lance’s thoughts exactly.

“They don’t,” Coran confirms.

“This is just a measure to buy Hunk some time,” Allura explains, folding her hands. “His…what was it again, Pidge? The useless organ?”

“Appendix.”

“Yes, that.” Allura inclines her head. “It won’t rupture while he’s in stasis. He’ll be preserved as he is now for as long as he has to be until we can figure out a solution.”

“And how long is that going to take?” Lance asks. “We can’t exactly just download instructions and figure out how to take it out ourselves…or can we?”

“Absolutely not,” says Shiro. “That’s way too dangerous.”

“Well we can’t exactly take him back to Earth,” Keith points out. “The second we land in a castle spaceship we’re going to be restrained and dragged off like Shiro was. Garrison officials are going to interrogate and detain us. Hunk’s appendectomy isn’t going to be their priority.”

“We can’t just keep him in the pod forever!” Lance splutters. 

“Relax.” Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder and offers a reassuring squeeze. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“What are we going to do though? We can’t help him, the pod can’t help him, Earth is off the table…” Keith holds his chin, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Lance,” Pidge says suddenly. “The alien at the space mall with all the Earth stuff. He was a Grey, wasn't he?”

“I think? He looked like a Grey.”

“Really?” Keith throws his hands up, exasperated. “You want to talk about your conspiracy theories now, Pidge?”

She rolls her eyes. “What are Greys famous for?”

“Roswell?” Shiro guesses. _“Fire in the Sky?”_

“No. Err, yes, but no.” Pidge twirls her finger.

“Uh…Greys?” Allura echoes uncertainly. 

“They probably aren’t really called that,” Lance answers. “They’re like iconic aliens on Earth and a lot of people think they’re among us. I used to think that was a bunch of crap but considering the dude at the space mall, they might actually be onto something.”

“Abduction,” Shiro guesses with more confidence.

Pidge snaps her fingers. “Bingo!”

“Oh,” Lance gasps as realization dawns on him. “Oh!”

“I’m still lost.” Keith crosses his arms. “What could this possibly have to do with Hunk?”

“I’m also confused,” Allura admits. She glances to Coran for reference but he only shrugs, just as lost.

Pidge slaps her forehead. “Keith! Were you raised in a barn? Greys experiment on the humans they abduct! They probe us and scan our brains and cut us open so they can peek around inside. The Grey at the space mall might be able to help.”

Keith is unimpressed. “I don’t even know how to start with how ridiculous that is.”

“You don’t have any better ideas!” Lance challenges.

“I don’t have any worse ones either,” Keith shoots back. “Are you actually considering asking some alien who sold you a video game and a cow—“

“Kaltenecker was free.”

“—to slice Hunk open?”

“It’s worth it to ask,” Pidge insists. “We need to help him somehow and if Earth lore is spot on, Greys are the reasonable way to go when our options are: ask a Grey, go back to Earth just to get wrangled by the Garrison, or keep Hunk an eternal pod popsicle.”

“Are those really our only options?” Shiro grimaces and turns to Allura.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Allura says quietly. “This is a matter of urgency so if it seems like a possible solution, we should pursue it.”

“I feel like you’re making too many assumptions,” Keith protests. “Like, what if conspiracy theorists are wrong and Greys don’t actually abduct people and experiment on them? Even if it is really a thing, what if the particular Grey you met doesn’t do that?”

“We at least know he’s been to Earth,” says Lance. “The theme of his store was Earth merchandise.”

“The Greys in _Fire in the Sky_ weren’t exactly gentle with their procedures,” Shiro sighs and casts an uncertain look to Hunk’s pod.

“That’s a movie,” Pidge snorts. “And those Greys didn’t even look like real Greys.”

“You don’t know what a real Grey looks like,” Keith argues. “I mean, did the guy with the Earth store actually call himself a Grey?”

“No, but I can put two and two together!” Pidge snaps, disgruntled. “He was the spitting image of every Grey described in every theory ever— minus the sexless nudity, he did have clothes on —Earth clothes, no less! Old ones, but still. With a store full of Earth stuff to boot! There’s no way he wasn’t a Grey!”

“We can ask,” Shiro decides. “But we need to be cautious. If this…Grey agrees, Hunk stays in the castle. The surgery can be performed here with supervision. There’s no way I’m letting _Fire in the Sky_ happen to him.”

“That movie really messed you up, huh Shiro?” Lance raises a brow.

“Not at the time, but some of the vague recollections I have of last year are similar enough to the film to unsettle me,” he admits in rare, open earnest. “Even if it didn’t, Hunk is sick and vulnerable and we’re not going to put him in the care of a complete stranger without precaution. Provided Mr. Grey even accepts what we’re asking.”

* * *

When they go back to the Grey’s shop, he has a new cow on another hover board. This time it’s a brown cow so huge Lance is positive it’s pregnant. Its moo announces their arrival and the Grey turns around from where he was busy dusting off an old car.

“Salutations,” he greets.

“Hey.” Lance waves, Pidge and Shiro on his heels. “So you remember me and my friend here?”

“Sure.” The Grey bobs his head. “Can I interest you in more games for the console you purchased last time? I just re-stocked.”

“Really?” Pidge’s eyes sparkle. “Where?”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Shiro breaks in before she can derail their mission.

“Oh?” Mr. Grey gestures to a shelf of Magic 8-Balls. “Would you like to browse my selection of novelty prediction spheres instead?”

“Actually we want to know if you’ve ever abducted humans before.” Pidge peers at him curiously.

“I have no humans for sale, I always put them back.” Mr. Grey studies them with his bulbous eyes, making a thoughtful noise in his throat. “But the three of you are human yourselves, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Lance claps his hands together. “So you have abducted us, then?”

“Your kind, not specifically you three.” Mr. Grey gives a particularly wary once over of Shiro and steps back. “It’s a tradition of my people, we mean no harm or offense…”

“No, no, this is good news!” Pidge bounces where she stands. “How good are you with human anatomy? Specifically internal human anatomy?”

“I have their insides memorized.” Mr. Grey seems a tad perplexed by her enthusiasm, but nods nonetheless. “Exploring them is part of the tradition but we always sew them back up before we deliver them home.”

“I knew it.” Pidge nods sagely.

Lance is as creeped out as he is relieved.

“You’re familiar with the appendix then?” Shiro asks with only a hint of discomfort, rolling with this unprecedented turn of events despite his clear misgivings.

“Of course. A peculiar pouch that projects from the colon, something humans haven’t needed in decathebes. Why do you ask?”

“Our friend is sick and he needs his out,” Lance clarifies. “Can you take it out without killing him?”

“Hmm…okay,” Mr. Grey agrees easily enough. “1,600 GAC.”

“We can’t exactly go fishing in the fountain again,” Pidge says, grabbing Lance’s wrist just as he wheels around to head that way. “We’ve got to keep a low profile. Remember the mall cop? We’re technically not supposed to be here at all.”

“Oh yeah…”

“An IOU?” Shiro proposes. “This is an emergency.”

Mr. Grey thoughtfully taps his long fingertips. “Can I keep the appendix?”

“If that's what you want.” Shiro gives an affirmative nod.

Mr. Grey turns his Area 51 hat around so it’s backwards and eagerly strides forward. “Kaltenecker and a half, keep an eye on the shop!”

The pregnant cow moos in acknowledgment and with that, they escort Mr. Grey back to the castle.

* * *

Once the abstract absurdity of their solution wears off, worry resurfaces in full force. Lance finds himself pacing around the lounge, his stomach churning and head buzzing.

“You guys think he’s gonna be okay?”

“I do,” Keith says confidently. “Shiro wouldn’t sign off on this if it wasn’t safe.”

“Hunk might even be safer with the Grey than he would be with a doctor,” Pidge muses, looking up from her laptop. “Their technology is obviously far superior to what we have on Earth." 

“But what if the alien probes aren’t sterile enough? What if Hunk’s appendix explodes in the middle of the whole thing?” Lance’s pacing quickens and he begins wringing his hands. “What if alien appendectomies are super messy and his insides get all butchered?”

“You’re acting like him,” Keith points out. “Freaking yourself out and jumping to all the worst case scenarios. Look, I was scared when it happened to Shiro too, but—“

“But it happened to Shiro on Earth, didn’t it?” Lance rounds on him. “With home around the corner? Actual hospitals and conventional surgical practices?”

“Fair enough.” Keith concedes.

Not three seconds later, Shiro himself walks in and dispels the conversation. Lance whirls around and snaps over the short gap to grab him by the shoulders.

“What’s happening? Is Hunk gonna be okay?”

“He’s already okay.” Shiro pats Lance’s head before he pries him off, smiling gently. “He’s up, actually.”

“What?” Pidge jumps to her feet with a squawk. “We've been back like twenty minutes!”

“Greys move inconceivably fast. I hardly believe it myself. So Hunk’s okay,” Shiro repeats. “But he’s pretty sore. So you can’t hug him,” he continues, pointing sternly to Lance, then shifting to Pidge “you can’t hug him, and you,” he indicates Keith last, “have to make sure they listen to me. I’ve gotta take Wogir back to his store.”

This is all Lance needs to know, he shimmies around Shiro and bolts. He charges at top speed and barrels into the infirmary, zipping past where Coran carries on a conversation with Mr. Gr— Wogir, apparently. His heart soars with an immediate relief as he lays eyes on his best friend, propped against some pillows as he accepts a water pouch from Allura.

Hunk notices him too, immediately stiffening. “No!”

“Yes!” Lance makes like he’s going to tackle him, but hastily skids to a stop just as Hunk winces in anticipation, bracing himself for pain. “Just kidding. Shiro warned us, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Jerk,” Hunk accuses lightly. He slumps back some into the pillows and takes a sip from the pouch. Lance catches Allura smirking before she pats Hunk’s shoulder and goes to join Coran and Wogir.

Lance leans over, resting his chin atop Hunk’s head and curling gentle fingers around his wrist. “You’re the jerk. You scared the quiznack out of me. Promise me you won’t ever do that again.”

“I wasn’t trying to this time,” Hunk points out, almost laughing and then stoping himself short with a quiet, uncomfortable sound. “But I guess I can keep the promise since I only had one appendix.”

“Mm.” Lance turns his head, nuzzling his cheek into Hunk’s hair.

“Don’t,” his friend grouses. “I'm gross. I have to shower.”

“You’re fine,” Lance murmurs. “You’re fine…”

“Yeah,” Hunk reaffirms, voice going all smooth and placid like he knows that’s what Lance needs to hear. “I am.”

Pidge suddenly shows up next to Lance, swinging her leg over and starting to climb on the bed. Keith seizes her around the waist and pulls her off while she squirms and gripes in disgruntlement.

“Nope,” he tells her flatly.

“I’m on his left, it’s fine!”

“Actually, it’s not.” Hunk smiles apologetically. “Sorry Pidge, I feel like I got chewed up by a…klammerel?”

“Klanmurël,” she corrects, enunciating distinctly. She wiggles her way out of Keith’s grasp, but agreeably stands where she is. “And ouch.”

“Shiro was pretty sore after this happened to him too,” Keith recalls. “I think holding a pillow helped. Especially when he was moving around.”

“That’s a weird mental image,” hums Lance.

Keith smirks. “Yeah, and it wasn’t just a pillow. It was a penguin Pillow Pet.”

That’s definitely worse, ridiculous really, but Lance can totally see it. Maybe that’s why it’s so funny. They all share a laugh but Hunk’s turns into a groan.

“Alright, new rule,” he decides. “No one’s allowed to make me laugh.”

“What are we allowed to do?” Lance walks his fingers down to Hunk’s hand, idly fanning them between his friend’s. “We wanna help.”

“Well for starters you can tell me whose idea it was to let some random alien from the space mall cut me open. Little skeptical about that one guys, not gonna lie.” Hunk whistles lowly.

“It was my idea,” Pidge announces with a touch of pride. “And it wasn’t a random choice at all. Wogir is a Grey. Do you know what that means?”

“I have a feeling I’m about to.”

“Right you are." A Cheshire cat grin lights up her face. "We’ve got a lot of time to kill so I’m gonna go get my chart and we’ll dive right into the history of the Greys.”

She scurries off and Keith follows her, voicing some skepticism about the accuracy of her data.

“How bad are you hurting?” Lance asks when they’re left to themselves. “Should I get Coran?”

“Nah.” Hunk turns his hand under Lance’s and loosely interlinks their fingers. “Just stay.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pillow Pet thing comes from my friend naming her penguin one Shiro. Same friend bought me a knockoff turtle one, which I now call Pidge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where the castle has big windows. Because that would be badass.

“Whoo hoo! Shiro, did you see that?” Lance’s excitement crackles through the comms.

“I saw. Impressive,” he compliments, feeling the low thrum of Black’s amusement in his head as the Blue Lion airily jaunts from the glittering plane of ice left in its wake. Lance’s aim has always been naturally on point, but it really does appear he’s improved the Freeze Ray’s range. Frigid crystals spike from settlements long forgotten, down the slope they dot upon and up on the opposite barren side.

This planet was historically populated but at some point in the last ten thousand years, it was inevitably conquered, mined to the point of waste, and had virtually become a moon for even longer. Nothing lives here now, not even microbes. Tragic as that is, it also makes this planet an ideal spot to exercise their arsenal.

“Oh wait,” Pidge blurts. Then, a gasp of shock. “No, no, no, no!”

“What is it?” Shiro demands.

“Keith! Keith was down there!”

“What!?” Lance shrieks.

Shiro’s heart freezes mid-beat, stomach dropping like a stone.

“He wanted to check out the old settlements!” Pidge carries on. “He thought he might find something interesting! Didn’t you notice the Red Lion isn’t out here?”

“Oh no, oh no, I…” Lance’s gulp is audible over the comms and his voice quavers as he asks, hushed with pure horror, “Did I just kill Keith?”

“Not according to BLIP tech scans,” Hunk announces. “It’s showing something alive at the bottom of the slope and since nothing lives on this planet, it has to be Keith.”

Shiro springs into action, kicking the Black Lion into overdrive and launching her down the slope. The other paladins continue crowing their panic, but it’s all white noise. Saving Keith is a frantic, urgent need that leaves room for nothing else in his racing mind.

He charges out of the Black Lion’s mouth, pumping his legs as fast as they’ll go precariously on the slippery ice beneath his boots.

“Keith! Keith, where are you?” He whips his head side to side, desperately searching the crystalized landscape.

“You’re near him,” Pidge informs, her tone serious but steadied. “BLIP tech says go left.”

To Shiro’s left there’s just mainly just glazed landscape. A modest settlement not too far away from him, shaped like a mushroom. Its door is open, but sealed off by the ice. Shiro hurries over, metal fingers poised like a blade as activation illuminates his hand. He draws it along the ice in the gap. It doesn’t melt fully, but it melts enough for him to yank the door open.

Some of Shiro’s anxiety lifts as he discovers that Keith is there, thankfully. The cover of the settlement protected him from being frozen. He’s not in stellar shape either, though. He’s sprawled forward on his stomach, blinking up at Shiro with bleary eyes.The exposure hasn’t been that long, but the Blue Lion’s ice prowess could outmatch any arctic blizzard. Keith’s helmet is clipped to his belt, his face left vulnerable. There’s already vermillion frostnip bright in his ears and nose, his lips trembling and hued blue.

What’s more is the massive icicle, spiking downward from the settlement’s open window. Its sharp tip drills through the back of Keith’s leg, his armor cracked around its entry. Shiro crouches and swipes his prosthetic just above where it punctures Keith’s leg. The little left in his skin melts away and blood wells up to take its place, but luckily it doesn’t appear to be as serious of a wound as Shiro first anticipated.

“I found him,” he finally replies to the flurry of concerned voices that overlap on their frequency. “I’ve got him.”

“How is he?” Lance asks, guilt thick in his wan voice.

“Cold,” Shiro replies, dusting some of the frost out of Keith’s hair. His eyelids flutter but he doesn’t speak. “Semiconscious. Everyone go back to the castle, we’ll meet you there.”

He gets three affirmatives and rolls Keith over, gentle as possible. “Keith? Can you hear me, buddy?”

Keith groans quietly and weakly bats at Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro accepts this as confirmation and carefully picks him up. He leaves in a brisk power walk, restraining himself from breaking into a full out run. The ice is still slippery and he’s not going to risk a fall with Keith in his arms, especially when he’s unclear on exactly what kind of shape he’s in.

When they get back on the Black Lion, she sends Shiro some reassuring pulses and increases the temperature in the cockpit. Shiro slides into his seat and adjusts Keith in his lap to accommodate piloting.

* * *

Back at the castle, Shiro hurries Keith to the infirmary. Everybody else is already waiting, wide-eyed and nervous. Lance is absolutely distraught, a thread of blood leaking from the lower lip snagged between his teeth and his hair mussed up where his hands have raked through.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, reedy and jittery. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea he was down there! How bad off is he? Is— Is Keith gonna be okay?”

“Yes, and all of you can help with that,” declares Shiro. “Lance, get him a change of clothes. Hunk, go get as many blankets as you can carry, Pidge get me something to take his temperature with.”

They all scramble off with their missions, but Lance nearly trips over himself in a mad dash. He’s clearly spooked about what he almost did. Of course he is and once Keith is all taken care of, Shiro will give him a talk that warrants the appropriate combination of scolding and comfort. Now he lowers Keith to a bed and begins taking his suit off.

Keith stirs, blinking his eyes a couple times and regaining some alertness. “Shiro…?”

“Hey,” Shiro greets fondly. “There you are.”

“I’m a popsicle,” Keith slurs, awed as though this is some new discovery, cosmic and grand.

“I know. We’re gonna get you warmed up, don’t worry.” Shiro gives his clammy face a gentle pat and then glances over to the perplexed, apprehensive Alteans. “Help me with his wound, Coran?”

“Of course!” He retrieves a med kit and bustles over.

A shiver ripples up Keith’s spine. The frostnip seems to have receded some from his ears and nose. He blinks a few more times, brows pinching together. He seems confused and while that’s not exactly great, his increasing awareness is certainly an improvement.

Shiro tenderly smooths his bangs back from his too cold forehead. “You’re okay, Keith.”

Keith presses pale lips together, the tension in his features easing as he looks to Shiro. He lets a slow exhale go and seems to relax until Coran sprays antiseptic in his wound. His leg jerks and he grumbles softly in dissent.

“Sorry,” Coran hums, putting the spray bottle back in the kit and taking out a small tub of cream. “This one won’t sting as much.” And then, to Shiro, “It isn’t deep at all. I wouldn’t recommend the pod even if it were safe for him in this state.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Allura shuffles over, fingers tentatively twitching.

Before Shiro can answer her, Pidge scurries back in with a small, fan like scanner in her hand. Her gaze gravitates to Keith, but she quickly looks away when she realizes his exposure. Adjusting her glasses, she passes Shiro the scanner. Keith is shivering more now too, and as uncomfortable as that means he is, it’s a better sign than stillness.

“That’ll give you his temperature, his pulse, and his platelet count. By the way, Coran, why the platelet count?”

“That’s an excellent question, Number Five. It pertains to Altean health and I’ll be happy to answer when Keith’s is no longer in jeopardy.” Coran plasters an adhesive pad over the cut.

Shiro pushes the button on the handle and the foam like blades spiral lazily, a blue light scanning Keith up and down. It confirms that he’s hypothermic, which naturally isn’t any surprise. It’s necessary to gauge its severity however, and thankfully Keith isn’t in immediate danger. He won’t drop into the danger zone either, not on Shiro’s watch.

“He could use something warm to drink.” Shiro looks to Allura. “Warm,” he emphasizes. “Not scalding.”

“Right.” The princess bobs her head and makes for the kitchen, deftly sidestepping Lance as he comes zipping through.

“Here!” He thrusts a pair of sweatpants and a blue robe into Shiro’s grasp. “I thought my clothes might be warmer on him since I’m taller.”

“Thanks, Lance.” Shiro helps Keith sit and drapes the robe around his shoulders, manually guiding his clumsy arms into the sleeves.

“I can do it myself,” Keith mutters petulantly. The slur in his voice is still there and Shiro knows that no, he in fact cannot do it himself. His movements are too delayed and uncoordinated.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Shiro ignores the pout twisted on his mouth as he goes on to help him into the pants, considerate of the wound as he manipulates his legs. He lifts him off the mattress enough to pull the waistband up. The whole thing is pretty awkward and graceless.

Keith is left soured, but he doesn’t protest or put up any more of a fight, which is solid evidence that he doesn’t feel up to one. This isn’t lost on Lance, whose eyes keep darting between Keith and the floor as he fidgets in place.

“I’m sorry, Keith. I swear I wasn’t trying to turn you into a snow cone.”

“I’m not mad,” Keith mutters tiredly. “Just cold.”

“I’ll go find Hunk. He’s taking forever.” Pidge flashes Keith a concerned look before she jogs to the corridor.

She doesn’t have to go far to find him though. In fact, Hunk nearly bowls her over as he comes charging into the room with a mammoth bundle of blankets in his arms. He can barely see over them and Pidge lets out a startled squeak as she has to duck out of the way.

“Sorry!” The blankets are slipping from Hunk’s grasp, one loose corner dragging on the ground. His foot catches it and he goes tumbling. The wad of them breaks what otherwise might’ve been a painful fall and Hunk quickly gets back up. He adjusts his grip on their mass and awkwardly waddles over.

“Where did you get all of those?” Shiro studies the plentiful load. He knows he told him to get as many as he could carry, but he didn’t realize he could carry quite that many.

“Allura’s closet.”

“Excuse you!” Coran fumes, stomping down with his hands on his hips. “You do not have permission to enter the princess’s quarters!”

“But this is an emergency!” Hunk urgently gestures to Keith and the blanket bundle slides out of his hands, thumping into Lance.

“Oof!”

“Whoops.”

Keith snorts, a humored grin unfurling on his face. It’s small and he’s still too pale and shivery, but seeing it there eases some of the tension from Shiro’s shoulders.

Hunk and Lance gather up the blankets between them.

“So Keith, ready to become a human burrito? Oh wait, you’re not— hm.” Hunk rubs his chin thoughtfully. “A hybrid burrito? Nah, that sounds weird. Biped burrito?”

“Hey,” chimes Pidge. “Maybe we should actually wrap him like that. Spread the blanket on the floor, and just like,” she twirls her hands, “roll him up.”

Lance gives her a mildly mystified look and Shiro chuckles as he helps Keith sit.

“No. We’re not going to roll Keith on the floor.” Shiro shifts his focus back on the patient in question. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah.” Keith shivers as he sighs out, chilly fingers clenching tight around Shiro’s hand. Lance’s robe is too long for him and the soft blue fabric brushes down over his knuckles.

Hunk and Lance simultaneously tag-team Keith with blankets, Hunk wrapping one around his shoulders while Lance spreads one over his legs. Pidge takes one from Hunk’s pile and actually climbs on the bed, careful not to be too vigorous as she spreads the blanket. She pulls it up to Keith’s neck and lightly tucks it in.

These definitely are Allura’s blankets. Shiro notes the difference between them and the standard ones he has in his own quarters. They’re long for one thing, long enough to cover two average earth mattresses. When they hang over the sides of the bed low enough to touch the floor, Pidge folds them over to cover Keith and they still have a bit of length over the sides.

They’re all of different thickness and textures. One that Lance smooths over Keith is thin but fuzzy. Another Hunk cocoons around him is heavier and more woolly. They’re all got different designs too, embroidered with floral and geometric patterns.

By the time they’re done, Shiro isn’t even sure how many blankets Keith is encased in. He does look a burrito. A pale, miserable burrito completely swathed in Allura’s closet comforters. Shiro lightly rubs him between the shoulder blades, but he’s so padded in blankets, he can’t be sure Keith feels the touch.

“It’s not anyone’s fault,” Shiro says slowly, looking between Lance and Keith. “Accidents happen. But next time, you should tell us where you’re going.”

“Pidge knew,” Keith huffs.

“Don’t put this on me,” she snaps. “It’s not like you said, ‘hey, let the team know I’m playing lone wolf again.’ You just offhandedly mentioned you were gonna look at the settlements. I didn’t know when either, for all I knew you meant you were gonna do it after exercising Red.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Shiro repeats firmly. “No one is at fault at all. But there are two lessons to take away from this; that we need to tell each other where we’re going to be, and we need to double check any given practice area before we just start blasting.”

That seems to douse the flare between them. Keith finally lets go of Shiro’s hand and tucks it back into his one-man blanket fort.

“Are you warming up?” Lance asks, a lingering trace of anxiety in his voice.

“Yeah,” Keith assures him. “It’s slow but it’s happening.”

“Will this help speed up the process?” Allura returns with a floating tray to her side. On it are half a dozen cups, all with white tendrils of stream puffing up. “There were several hot drink mixes at my disposal and I wasn’t sure which one would be most appropriate, so I made them all. Wait…”

Allura makes a strange face as she regards Keith’s cushy cocoon. ”…some of those are my curtains.”

“My bad.” Hunk sheepishly knits his fingers.

Keith looks down at himself and seems to deflate. “How much of me do you need to unravel to get your curtains back?”

“None of you.” Allura waves her hand. “It’s perfectly alright. By all means, stay curled up in the curtains.”

She sends the tray Keith’s way with a tiny tap. Shiro curiously blinks at the various liquid in the cups. One almost appears to be coffee, but it smells much too sweet to be any kind of equivalent. One is murky green and highly unappealing to the eye and sure enough, that’s the one Keith picks first.

He brings it to lips and inhales the steam before he sips, the subtle softening of relief in his expression. “This is way better than that hot dog water.”

“Anything has got to be better than the hot dog water.” Lance makes a gagging sound with his tongue stuck out, and it’s the most at ease Shiro’s seen him since retrieving the Keith-sicle.

* * *

Keith rewarms easily enough. He’s drowsy but he’s clear-headed and after a tray full of hot Altean drinks and a couple hours of incubating in plentiful layers, his temperature is normal. That was the goal, of course, and it certainly makes Shiro feel that much better.

But it almost seems like Keith is sulking when he subsequently extracts himself from Allura’s seemingly comfortable curtains.

“It’s weird,” he admits to Shiro even later than that, unprompted, when it’s only the two of them in the training deck and everyone else is doing their own thing.

“What’s weird?”

“Being…” Keith’s brow furrows, mild frustration sparked as he finds himself at a loss for words.

“Almost frozen?” Shiro guesses, ceasing sit-ups and rolling to his feet. He hadn’t believed the experience perturbed Keith in any way, he hadn’t seemed disquieted. Perhaps he missed something, he should have been paying better attention.

But Keith shakes his head. “No, not that, after…with everyone and stuff.”

“Being taken care of?” Shiro’s protective instinct fades.

“Yeah, I guess? I don’t know. I think it seemed a little excessive, maybe?”

“Everyone was worried, we all just wanted to help.” Shiro smiles and gently nudges his shoulder. “It wasn’t bad was it?”

“No,” Keith says quickly, and then his lips quirk, his own smile tiny and soft and a tad shy. “Just different, I guess.”  
  
“You’re cute,” Shiro teases.

Keith’s cheeks go tomato red as he immediately puffs out and spits like an angry kitten. Now that, that’s even _cuter,_ and all Shiro can do is laugh happily. He ruffles his hand through his hair, Keith sputtering indignant sounds and insisting that he stop.

“Shiro! I was being serious!”

“I know,” he says apologetically. “Sorry.”

Truthfully, Shiro can’t feel that bad about it. Not when an embarrassed, fiery Keith is a hell of a lot better to see than a shivering, blue-lipped one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief, mild gore in this one! The gore's only in there a little bit, there's more blood than there is gore. And space caterpillars, cause I love those things, they're the cutest. And more TransGirl!Pidge headcanons among other headcanons sprinkled in there.

“…idge? Pidge!?”

Pidge answers the urgent call with a pained noise that begins as a groan and heightens until it’s a sharp cry. She rapidly rolls off of her evidently injured shoulder and sucks in a breath that stings, particles in the atmosphere scraping against her throat. She lets out another cry but pain causes its volume to shrivel as it wobbles over her lips.

The unyielding bolts in her shoulder throttle all the way down to her fingertips, continuous bursts of burning agony. She tries to clear her mind past the pain, figure out what’s going on. Someone’s saying her name again.

Hunk. He’s poised on his hands and knees above her, this much she can make out as her eyes adjust to faint glow of purple that diffuses from the rubble around them. Respecting personal space is definitely _not_ Hunk’s strong suit but this is just downright inappropriate, he’s practically on top of her. Why the—

Wait.

Rubble!?

Pidge blinks again, head swiveling like a barn owl’s as she scans their surroundings with wide eyes. There’s nothing but rubble beyond their tiny tent of space; crumbling slabs and jagged wreckage. The debris of a Galra laboratory.

Right. They were on a mission to sabotage a prototype of a new weapon. Pidge had gotten them past security. Hunk was supposed to dismantle the bizarre, egg-shaped thing, but the moment he’d touched the weapon it emitted this ear-splitting wail that Pidge swore could have shattered the sound barrier. And then…

Had it exploded!?

She looks back up to Hunk, flabbergasted. Blood crawls down his face. She can’t see where exactly it’s coming from because of the helmet, but three tendrils thicken around his nose and down the its blunt slope. They converge at the very tip, forming a droplet. It drips, softly splashes Pidge’s forehead in a span of seconds.

The next droplet falls and then another, blood quietly pattering against Pidge’s skin.

“Hunk,” she whispers, heart freezing in her chest as realization dawns on her.

There is no little tent of space inside the wreckage. Hunk’s just keeping it off of her, that’s all. She looks up and she sees it, shambles of Galra building propped up on his back like giant derelict puzzle pieces.

“We’re in a tight spot, little buddy,” he mutters, grimacing. “That weapon brought the building down.”

“I noticed,” Pidge huffs bitterly, reaching up with her uninjured arm to brush the blood off his nose. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.” Hunk audibly swallows. Pidge keeps her hand on his face long enough to feel him shaking. Whether it’s from strain or panic, she isn’t sure. “I can’t call for help, all I’m getting is static.”

Pidge activates her comms link, but it’s the same. There’s no one on the other other end, all she hears is the buzzing finality of static. She isn’t sure if it’s because she can’t get a connection or if it’s because her helmet is damaged. Her visor is gone and she can feel the portion of the back of her head uncovered where the bottom must’ve been clipped.

“Damn it,” she hisses, her shoulder giving a particularly pointed pulse of pain.

“The weapon might’ve knocked out the frequency,” Hunk proposes, voice quavering with anxiety. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales a shuddering breath, something that conveys pain even before more blood splashes Pidge’s cheek. The blood’s coursing down his face again, this time a thin rivulet that runs all the way to his chin. A tiny bead forms there, precariously dangling.

That one doesn’t drip.

“Hunk…you don’t have to do that,” Pidge tells him, frowning darkly.

“Do what?”

“Hold up a building on your back, what do you think!?” She snaps, their worrying circumstances and the brutal pain in her arm a scourge on her patience meter.

“Not exactly a building anymore,” grunts Hunk. “It probably isn’t the whole thing anyway, I mean, that can’t be possible. Besides, I’m not going to let you get squished.”

“You’re getting squished,” she returns hotly, lifting her head to squint at the way the debris presses into his back. Even in the poor lighting she can see where his armor has splintered around its burden.

“Nah,” Hunk dismisses through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry about it, I’m like a flea.”

“A flea?” Pidge raises a brow.

“Your dog had fleas before. Gunther, right?”

“I never told you that,” she grumbles, shifting slightly to cradle her injured arm to her chest.

“Read it in your diary,” he replies simply. “Did you ever catch any of the fleas on him? Try to squish them?”

“Well, a couple before the shampoo kicked in,” Pidge says. She remembers pinching the little bastards between her thumb and forefinger. She’d pinched with all her might, but they always managed to jump away as soon as she let up the slightest bit.

“Pretty hard to squish a flea, isn’t it?” Hunk offers her a tight smirk. “They’re tougher than they look. I’ll be okay until the others get here…unless they don’t and then we just both die.” A nervous whine pitches in his throat. “Oh man, Pidge, if they don’t get here we’re gonna be jelly! Bloody, gory jelly, and no one’s gonna know what’s me or what’s you!”

“We’re not gonna die,” Pidge promises, even though it’s difficult to feel optimistic when droplets of his blood keep slapping her face. “I bet everybody is gonna come save us any minute now. I mean, Hunk. We fought Zarkon! You think it’s going to be a stupid building that kills us? Allura for sure already knows something is wrong because I haven’t updated her. Salvation is totally around the corner for us.”

“Right.” Hunk lets out another slow, measured breath. Strain is stark on his features, rolling beads of preparation accompanying the blood.

Along with everything else, Pidge is alarmed by just how much he’s bleeding. But Hunk hates blood with a squeamish passion so the last thing she wants to do is draw attention this. Especially not when he’s already on the edge of panic. Besides, head wounds bleed a lot even when they aren’t serious, so it might not even be worth mentioning.

“It’s possible to break your shoulder, right? I think I broke my shoulder,” she finds herself growling as another shockwave of pain jolts outward, riddling viciously along her entire limb.

Hunk squints at the aforementioned joint, humming thoughtfully. “Yeah, even with your armor in the way, something doesn’t look right there. Maybe it’s dislocated. Can you move your fingers?”

Pidge attempts to do so. The digits remain immobile and all that results is a spasm of more intense pain that has her cursing through clenched teeth.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

Hunk inhales sharply, sympathy flashing in his eyes. “Wonder how long that’s gonna put you in the pod for.”

“Hopefully not too long,” Pidge gripes as she blinks back tears. “I hate going in there. I always feel cold for hours after I come out.”

“Aw, buddy.” Hunk frowns. “Tell you what, when you come out we can snuggle up in a big blanket pile.”

“Not exactly my favorite pastime but it definitely sounds better than being cold, so I’ll take you up on that,” Pidge agrees. “If we get out of the pod at the same time…you might be in there a little longer. How are you holding up?”

It hasn’t escaped her notice that Hunk’s breathing is growing increasingly labored. It hasn’t escaped her attention that his elbows have bent further, their angle more acute with every increment he sinks.

“Been better,” he admits. “I swear, I always get the worst missions.” He gives a jittery laugh that morphs into a groan, his brows pinching together.

Pidge chews her lip and brushes some of the blood from his face again. It smears over the skin under his eye and down his cheek, blotchy and baleful in the poor light. The upper part of his helmet is moderately intact, though even what remains of his visor is spiderwebbed with cracks. Most of the bottom shell is missing. So where might that put the wound? Or wounds?

“This might be the worst one to date,” Hunk carries on. “Really not into dark, tight, cramped spaces like this. The Weblum’s stomach was super disgusting, don’t get me wrong, but at least it was roomy.”

“What?” Pidge squawks, playing up her disbelief in part to distract him. “You’re in tight spaces all the time, Mr. Mechanic. Fixing ships from the bottom and squeezing into engine compartments and whatnot.”

“It’s different when there’s a way to get out,” he says immediately. “As long as I can see an exit, I’m fine. But there’s no exit here, I’m trapped. We’re trapped.”

“So trapped,” Pidge laments, biting back a whine as pain rages through her arm. “I’m sorry. I wish I could climb through the cracks, or around the debris or something. But the only spaces there are are too small even for me and I can’t move anything like this.”

Hunk bobs his head in frightful agreement.

“Still though, just— like I said. You know they’re are gonna come! We’re gonna be fine! This totally sucks right now but it’s not going to last. Our friends are gonna bail us out of this so try to stay calm, alright?”

“Giving it my best shot,” Hunk mutters. “Distract me, maybe?”

“Alright.” Pidge nods, biting back another noise of pain. She could use a distraction herself. “With what?”

“Whatever, I’m not picky.”

“Okay, uh…One of the first things I want to do when we have some downtime is go back to the space mall and get a dress. Paladin wear is great and all, but we’ve been in space for awhile now and I want to expand my wardrobe.”

“I’m sure Allura would let you borrow a dress.”

Pidge snorts. “Right. Because Allura’s clothes would fit me.”

“She shape shifts,” Hunk points out. “She probably has something smaller for when she has to do diplomatic princess stuff with short aliens.”

“Hmm. True.” Pidge considers briefly and then shakes her head. “I still want to get one from the space mall. Allura’s style is a little too fancy for me. I had a fancy phase. Ironically enough, it wasn’t pretty at all.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” Pidge almost leaves it at that. Then some more of Hunk’s blood drips off the dimple of his upper lip and very nearly lands in her eye. He’s sank down some more under the crushing weight. He’s closer to her than he was when she first came to, braced less like a pillar and more like a folded lawn chair.

This is someone who’s breaking his back to protect her from being squashed like a bug. Her teammate, her friend. She trusts him. She trusts all of them now.

“When I first came out as a girl, I felt like I had to be super fancy and feminine,” Pidge admits softly. “Like I absolutely had to be as frilly and glittery as possible every day just to prove I was a girl at all. Nail polish, sequins, cotton candy skirts, tons of sticky lip gloss. The works! But I came out to begin with because I wanted to be me and all that fancy stuff…just wasn’t me.”

“Aw, Pidge.” The smile Hunk gives her is a gentle one, another drop of blood breaking away from his lip. “You look really cute in the dress you’re wearing in your picture. The one with your brother.”

“Thanks.” Pidge feels her own smile unfurl, small and delicate. “He bought it for me, actually. I love dresses like that. Simple and comfortable. They’re great when I’m too lazy to put pants on.”

Hunk gives a laugh at that, but it quickly turns into a sharp, breathy noise of pain that hits Pidge like a sucker punch.

“Oh, Hunk— you, you can stop!” she splutters. “Look— it’s okay, I know you can’t keep this up.”

It’s not that she isn’t scared. Knots upon knots tangle in her chest. Her gut grapples with fear’s glacial ice here in this teeny, tiny pocket of space, the air thick as cotton and speckles of friend’s blood drying on her face. Pidge is terrified. Terrified and in pain, and if Hunk gives out she knows she’s going to be flattened like roadkill.

But she still can’t let him think he has to do this. It’s just too much. He’s wheezing at this point, nearly breathless. The wobble in his limbs is nearly imperceptible in the low light, so Pidge puts her hand on his upper arm. She confirms it; he’s trembling with strain beneath her touch.

“It’s not that bad,” he starts. “Well okay, it’s actually like, really bad. But I’ve got this, just keep distracting me. Please.”

“Sure.” She swallows, gives his arm a gentle pat. “Hey, I know. I wanted to ask earlier but I forgot. What the heck was going on in the training deck the other night? With Lance and Keith? It didn’t look like fighting.”

“Oh, that.” Hunk grins. “Somersault kiss.”

“Huh?”

“Somersault kissing,” he repeats. “It was this weird but popular fad at the Garrison before you got there. You hold your friend’s hands through their legs while they’re bent down, and then flip them up so they’re around your waist…Not as cute as it sounds, believe me, most people were so bad at it…Kicking each other in the face or dropping each other, or knocking each other over.”

“It sounds acrobatic,” Pidge says. She decides it’s better to keep him suitably distracted than point out the shallow, quickening pace of his breath.

“Lance and me were really good at it though. So he wanted to show off to Keith, since Keith was at the Garrison when it was cool.” Hunk takes a longer pause to rake in some air. “At first it didn’t seem like he was impressed by our demonstration, but then things got competitive.”

“Of course they did.” She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah,” Hunk sighs out. “They kicked each other in the face a lot…not sure all of it was accidental.”

“It probably wasn’t.” Pidge’s nose switches in disbelief. “Anyway, I want Rover back.”

“Rover?” Hunk’s brows raise. “I dunno Pidge, even if we could get down there, he’s probably too busted to repair.”

“I’m not going down into the castle’s bowels,” Pidge clarifies immediately. “I want to swipe another Galra drone. But I need to integrate better security so its signature can’t be replicated like last time. Definitely don’t want last time to happen again.”

“You’re telling me.”

“At least you got to meet your rock girlfriend,” teases Pidge.

“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s just like, the best boulder friend anybody could ask for.” Hunk closes his eyes, spends another moment just breathing. “I want to see her again.”

“I’m sure Allura will be up for visiting the Balmera,” Pidge offers hopefully.

If they ever see Allura again, that is.

Hunk shudders almost like he can hear Pidge’s thoughts, choking out a cry between clenched teeth as he sinks some more. The rubble scrapes together and there’s a less identifiable splitting sound. For one petrifying heartbeat Pidge thinks Hunk about to give out entirely, but he doesn’t. It’s a near thing though. They’re close enough to touch now, his stomach lightly pressing to her lower body. She painstakingly shifts her arm again, teeth in her lip in case his chest touches down too.

It doesn’t. Hunk remains fixed in his new position, panting heavily.

“Pidge…I’m trying, but if…If I really can’t keep it up, I’m sorry.” Tears well up in his frightened eyes, shiny and bright.

Pidge just shakes her head and moves her hand to his cheek, gingerly stroking her thumb under his eye. More blood smears. “I told you, it’s okay. I’m scared too but I’m not going to blame you for something that isn’t your fault.”

“It is though,” Hunk gasps, the struggling catch in his breath all the more evident as his pitch rises. “That weapon only exploded because I touched it.”

“Shh, don’t talk anymore, okay?” Pidge urges. “Just focus on breathing. Try to stay calm, alright? We didn’t know it was going to self-destruct. Neither of us had any idea, it’s not your fault.”

Hunk complies and settles down somewhat. Outwardly anyway. He’s still bleeding on her and sweating on her, and now he’s crying on her too. He can’t be that calm. Pidge isn’t exactly calm either but she thinks she’s faring better, at least.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she promises, cringing inside at the sheer absence of evidence supporting this. She does have faith in their friends, but faith in their timing? That’s dwindling fast. And time isn’t something they have abundance of, not with the way Hunk’s wobbling.

“Just keep breathing and let me distract you,” Pidge goes on. “I want you to help me when I test different security software on Rover 2.0. And maybe you could help me build an enrichment area for my space caterpillars when you’ve got the time? I love those fuzzy guys but they keep getting into my projects. I don’t want them to be bored. The ones I brought back from the junk heap are pretty good with tech, but the babies aren’t. I can’t have them playing with my equipment.”

A muffled, rumbling sound penetrates their glowing purple tomb. It’s the first sound Pidge has heard other than Hunk’s labored breathing in awhile so it throws her for a moment. But then she licks her lips and carries on, trying to distract herself just as much as she’s trying to keep him distracted.

“We’re gonna be fine,” she says, routing back to optimism she doesn’t feel for reasons she isn’t sure of. Probably because it sounds like something she’s supposed to say, sounds like something Hunk should hear. Words that might fight off this deep, dark, dread biting into her gut. “Both of us. I won’t let anything happen to you. You never let anything happen to me.”

“Of course I never let anything happen to you,” Hunk murmurs. “You’re my little green lima bean.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to talk? And also, NO. Nuh-uh. Nope. If you weren’t hurt, I’d never let you get away with calling me that.”

“The perks of being crushed,” Hunk teases.

“Don’t do that either,” Pidge says as she wrinkles her nose. “Shiro’s sense of humor looks really bad on you.”

“S’cuse me for trying to be cool,” he croaks. “I thought it’d be a better look than talking about how much this hurts. Pidge, it really, really hurts. I know you’re trying but I’m freaking out. I’m dizzy and everything hurts, and I know none of that’s good, none—”

“Shh! Calm down,” Pidge cuts in quickly, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. “What’d I just say, huh? That I’m not going to let anything happen to you! Believe me, alright? If I’m really your, ugh, _lima bean,_ then trust me.”

Hunk’s next exhale is quieter. The violence of his trembling slackens just slightly. Pidge pats his arm again.

“Just relax,” she encourages, willing her own voice not to shake. She’s on the cusp of hysteria despite all her bravado. She doesn’t want to die like this, trapped under heaps of crumbling Galra walls without ever finding her family. She closes her eyes and forces herself to say more things she doesn’t believe. “We’re both going to be fine. You’re gonna have a nice cold nap in the pod, then you’re gonna wake up good as new and help me modify the castle’s defenses, among numerous other things.”

“Allura gave you permission?” Hunk’s quirks a brow, suspicious.

“No, that’s why I need your help. You’re her favorite, she’ll go for it if you back me up on this.”

“Not her favorite…”

“For the third time, save your voice.” Pidge puts a finger to his lips. “I’m pretty sure you’re her favorite. Or okay, maybe Shiro’s her favorite…Either way, I have a great idea for reinforcing the particle barrier and I want to upgrade the lasers, but you’ve got to help me convince her. The castle is her baby. She isn’t going to let me play with it unless she’s one hundred precent sure my improvements will work.”

Pidge reaches into her mind, desperate to pull out some more applicable distractions. It’s growing more difficult the higher her panic mounts. There’s a repeat of the muffled rumbling sound from earlier that dispels her thoughts, only this time it’s somewhat louder than before. Then everything is happening all at once.

There’s more rumbling, an even louder scraping. Pidge sees stars the moment the overhead rubble disappears, real stars that glitter in the vast expanse above. Pidge sees stars the moment Hunk drops on her, metaphorical stars that explode in her vision like fireworks as his sudden weight knocks the breath from her lungs. Her shoulder wails upon the contact, a firestorm of pain so fierce Pidge screams.

When her vision clears, she can see the Red and Black Lions. She clenches her teeth and wiggles back, worming out from under Hunk enough to free her upper body.

“Sorry,” he rasps, so faint it’s nearly inaudible. “As soon as the pressure was gone, I just…” he trails off.

“I know.” Pidge can’t help groaning even though the last thing she wants to do is make him feel guilty. “It’s not your fault.”

She carefully sits up and nearly gags at the sight she’s presented with. She’d noticed earlier that some of Hunk’s armor was broken but she didn’t realize the extent. The plating on his back is essentially shattered, shards and splinters of armor sticking out of the raw hamburger meat where bright brown skin is supposed to be. Pidge can scarcely comprehend what she’s staring at. She just stops, stops like a bot with dead batteries as numbness floods her core.

She doesn’t feel the pain in her shoulder anymore and she can’t even tear her eyes away as her other teammates come running. She distantly registers Lance’s shrieking. He throws himself beside Hunk, prattling all kinds of panicked things her brain won’t make sense of. He looks her right in the face and speaks something at her, but it’s like the world is on mute and she can’t make sense of that either.

Shiro shows up in her sightline, Galra prosthetic glowing. She can’t fathom why. Then someone is pulling her back. The weight of Hunk’s head leaves her hip and she’s plugged back into the world as renewed pain rockets through her shoulder. She yelps and jerks her head against the dizzying intensity, eyes screwing shut.

“Sorry!”

Pidge opens her eyes and Keith is frowning at her, face pale and scrutiny severe.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks.

“Shoulder,” she says, surprised she could push out an answer at all.

“Okay.” Keith gives a short nod. “Yeah, I see you’re favoring it. Where else? Where are you bleeding?”

Bleeding? What? Pidge follows Keith’s eyes, breath catching in her throat. There are bloody streaks all over her legs, her belt. She isn’t bleeding though, she can’t be. There’s no pain other than in her shoulder. She briefly thinks back to the lowest Hunk sank, the light skim of his stomach against her.

“It’s not my blood,” she whines softly, bottom lip trembling. She peers around Keith to get another look at the others and discovers why Shiro’s arm was activated.

He’s in the middle of cauterizing Hunk’s back. It’s a disturbing thing to watch in its gruesome entirety, even if Lance’s hunched frame obscures some of the view. However, the scariest part is that it must be painful as all hell and Hunk is barely fighting it. He twitches a little, making some soft, hiccupy noises, but that’s hardly a response to someone _burning your wounds closed_.

He's quiet. Quiet can't be good, quiet doesn't speak of anything good.  

“I’m gonna take care of you while they’re taking care of him, okay?”

“Yeah.” Pidge blinks, tosses Keith a permissive glance before her eyes stray back to the horrific scene of Shiro dragging his hand down the wet pink and red grisliness that should be Hunk’s back.

She can taste the acrid, smokey scent of cooking meat in the air. She isn’t sure how long she’s staring or smelling, it could be forever or less than a minute. Keith pulls her out of her stupor by tugging on her arm. Pidge yelps and jerks to him, primed to shout even though the words aren’t there.

She stops short, realizing most of her upper armor is on the ground. It throws her off, this unprecedented detail.

“It’s dislocated.” Keith nods to her visibly displaced shoulder, a sunken knoll splotched with vivid bruising below the natural position of the joint. “I’m going to put it back for you. On the count of three, okay? We’ll count together.”

Keith lifts her arm, gentle as possible though Pidge can’t help grimacing.

“Okay,” she consents.

Keith takes a deep breath and shoves it back into place without even counting to one. Pidge screeches loud enough to raze her throat. The pain reaches a white-hot peak. It begins to taper off but the world blurs at the same time and her consciousness slips away from her.

* * *

When Pidge wakes up, she doesn’t hurt anymore but things are cold. There are five, fuzzy, expectant faces beyond the glass of the cryo-pod. For a moment she can’t remember why she’s there, but in the next few seconds the recollection reels through her in mind in a quicksilver clip show.

As the pod slides open, she stumbles out and wildly clutches Allura’s outstretched arms for support. She looks between all of her friends and the somber expressions they share, swallowing heavily.

“Is Hunk dead?” she forces herself to ask, the last images of him in her mind’s eye far from promising and dread heavy in her heart.

“No,” Shiro’s the first one to say but everyone echoes him with their own _no’s_ and Pidge sags in relief, letting herself go slack in Allura’s grasp.

“He’s right here.” Coran sidles over to the pod a few lengths away from the one Pidge just emerged of. She cranes her neck to take a look and relaxes even more when she sees her friend inside. “It’ll take a few more quintants, but he’s going to be fine.”

Pidge nods, getting all choked up in the relief that continues coursing through her. She forces back tears and takes in a deep breath.

“How long was I out?”

“About 30 vargas,” Allura answers. “How do you feel?”

“A little chilly.” Pidge finally lets go of Allura and shuffles around just to work the shakiness out of her steps. She rolls her shoulder experimentally and ascertains its recovery when the motion is smooth and painless.

Shiro puts a steady hand on her back. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Pidge purses her lips as she contemplates. “I don’t know, there’s not too much to say. Disabling the security system was easy enough, but the Galra Egg of Doom had a self-destruct feature none of us picked up. Oh, and I found out that Hunk is totally superhuman. Lance, you spot for the guy. What the hell does he lift, cars?”

“Practically.” Lance snorts and sends a fond look to the occupied pod.

“Sorry about making you pass out,” Keith says suddenly, frowning at Pidge. “I wanted to help, I didn’t realize you were gonna pass out.”

“You did help,” Pidge tells him with an easy wave of her hand. “It’s fine. I would’ve passed out in the pod anyway.”

Keith relaxes and Allura leads her away to get some food.

* * *

“A few quintants” is an underestimate. It takes a little over a week before Hunk is actually out of the pod and during the excruciating long wait of it, there’s this hovering cloud of uneasiness that Pidge cannot shake.

It’s her uneasiness she blames it on when the second Hunk does step out of the pod, she launches herself at him like a missile. Lance, she discovers mid-stride, has the same idea. His longer legs mean he gets there first, tackling Hunk about a half a second before she does too. Behind them, Shiro calls out a sharp reprimand, but it’s too late.

Hunk grunts under their combined weight and he’s so quivery from his fresh emergence from the pod, that it’s enough to knock him down. His groan is soft as Lance nuzzles into his hair and Pidge just clings and squeezes him tight, pressing as close as she can.

“Ow,” he mumbles. “Jeez. What’re you guys trying to do, put me right back in there?”

“Sorry,” says Pidge. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Got caught up in the moment,” Lance hums. “Besides, after my last pod trip you squeezed me so hard I thought my spine was gonna snap. This is payback.”

Hunk puts a hand on each of their backs, tenderly stroking up and down. “Alright, alright.”

Pidge finds herself soothed both by the rhythm of his touch and the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek. He’s okay. She’d known he was going to be, but it’s much easier to relax now that he is. It’s entirely too soon when Shiro interrupts.

“All right you two, let him up.”

Pidge reluctantly lets go and rolls off of him. Lance isn’t as compliant and makes a low, disagreeable noise. He stays where he is, wrapped around Hunk like a koala. Only when Keith nudges him with his foot does he actually move, peeling himself away with a pout.

Hunk starts to stand but about halfway up, his legs give and he falters down to his knees.

Pidge startles, her hands fluttering uncertainly.

“Whoa, we didn’t actually hurt you, did we?” Lance gawks, brows jumping to his hairline. 

“Nah, I just need a minute.” Hunk pushes his bangs back and gives himself a brisk shake. “Still thawing, I guess.”

Shiro helps him up slow and steady, pressing close for support. Hunk keeps a tight grasp on his hand and leans into him slightly.

“You were out for awhile,” Keith says uncertainly, looking him up and down.

“Awhile? Okay, how long is awhile?”

“Little over a week, I guess.” Lance scratches at his head. “It felt longer though.”

“A week?” Hunk balks. “Last time I was in there it was only like, two days!”

“Well last time you took a lot less damage,” Coran says, matter-of-fact. “This time the majority of your blood supply had to be replenished.”

“Ugh.” Hunk pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not talk about blood? Talking about anything other than blood would be awesome.”

“Weblums?” Keith suggests, a slight smirk twitching on his lips.

Pidge and Lance exchange surprised looks, but Shiro is smiling and Hunk just chuckles.

“Told you guys Galra-Keith was funny.”

* * *

Pidge gives Hunk some space to get situated before she knocks on his door. It slides open after a tick and he’s just chilling on the bed, messing with something. She takes a peek and realizes it’s a craft.

“Is that a lanyard?”

“Yep.” Hunk looks up. “I don’t really know what I’m gonna do with it, just felt like making one. What’s up?”

“The babies wanna say hi.” Pidge brings her backpack around and unzips it, letting out the quartet of fluffy caterpillars hardly bigger than cotton balls (courtesy of Snooty and Tribble, she _thinks_ anyway, truthfully she hasn’t solved the puzzle of how space caterpillars reproduce yet). They trill as they float around, their markings glowing faintly.

“Aww.” Hunk coos, his eyes melting the second he looks at them. One of them, Bean Sprout, affectionately bumps him in the temple.

Pidge hops up on the bed and folds her legs, just watching. The adorableness of mini space caterpillars keeps Hunk suitably occupied as she scrutinizes. He seems okay. Looks okay too, mostly. His complexion might be a little off. She shouldn’t be concerned. The pod does a hell of a job. Still…the whole ordeal freaked her out even after the danger passed. She’d nearly thrown up when she had to scrub his dried blood off of her armor. Some of it had gotten under her fingernails and she hadn’t even noticed until she’d given them a nervous gnaw and tasted copper.

But she won’t admit how much it shook her up, not to Hunk anyway. He’s doesn’t need to hear that, not when he’s already so sensitive. Maybe to Shiro at some point if it ever becomes relevant. It probably won’t. Hunk’s here, he’s fine. It’s whatever. Almost dying is almost routine on their intergalactic adventure, they’ve all done it at one point or another by now.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“Huh?” Hunk turns away from stroking Gremlin with a gentle fingertip and curiously tilts his head.

“For the lanyard,” she tells him instead of bringing up something that’s bound to be irrelevant now that he’s fine. “I stake my claim. It would look neat on my backpack and you’re not going to do anything better with it.”

“Sure. In that case, you’re welcome.” Hunk smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some more mild gore! It's not extensive gore, but there is some present. And of course, violent torture applies. I headcanon Allura's blood as being pink, which...I mean, I'm a fan of candy guro, so maybe that's kind of an indulgent headcanon, but anyway.

“A toast to our alliance,” Queen Hozlil of the Variyat proposes, raising her glass.

The Variyat were a bronze-furred people from an out of the way solar system. Their dusty planet the size of a pinhead compared to the forgone Altea and Allura had only been vaguely aware of them before the war. Several vargas ago, however, the castle received a transmission accounting the Variyat’s impressive victory against their Galra occupation.

After hearing rumors of the rise of Voltron, the Variyat had been inspired. They rebelled for the first time in decathebes and drove the Galra off their planet, restoring the queen to her throne. In their success, they sought a coalition. Any and all allies were wanted ones as far as Allura was concerned. The minute size of the planet was eclipsed by the might of its brave people, who had proven themselves willing to stand up to the empire.

Allura smiles cordially and raises her own glass, inclining it to meet Queen Hozlil’s with a delicate clink. She waits for the queen to take a sip before she allows herself to, the bubbles of the fizzy tonic tickling her nostrils.

It tastes interesting. Too strong, so potent it strings when it hits the back of her throat. Allura says nothing of this, naturally. She lowers the glass back to the table with a modest elegance and dips her head.

“Please eat,” insists the queen, “In our tradition, it is customary for the guest to take the first bite.”

“I’ll be happy to,” Allura agrees merrily, mannerisms light as she lifts her spork and scoops up some of the textured stew in the bowl. “It smells delightful.”

It’s only the two of them dining together. Privacy between leaders is another Variyat custom and the paladins are eating with Hozlil’s rebel fighters while Coran monitors the bridge on the castle.

The food isn’t unpleasant but it is much saltier than Allura anticipated. She finds herself drinking more of the tonic just to wash it down, though she does so with a smooth expression and masks the eagerness to reach for the glass by daintily pinching only its stem.

“Are you enjoying the meal?”

“Of c…course?” Allura tries to swallow past the sudden tightness of her throat as an eerie pressure suddenly pounds through her skull. The queen’s image blurs before her.

Allura realizes she has been betrayed just as the spork slips out of her suddenly fumbling fingers as numbness prickles beneath the skin. She topples from her chair and folds boneless to the floor and this is when she realizes, _no,_ betrayal would indicate a traitor switching sides.

This alleged alliance was a setup from the start. She hasn’t been betrayed, she’s been trapped. Allura tries to move but her limbs won’t cooperate. She can barely feel the faintest of tingles to indicate that they’re still attached at all and she cannot speak, her tongue flopping uselessly in her mouth.

“Sorry, princess,” whispers Hozlil, regret laced through her voice as she bows her oblong head. “They have my son.”

Ire seethes through Allura, a growl that her throat can’t muster dying as a gargle through her teeth. She’s more furious with herself than anything. She shouldn’t have been so stupid! She shouldn’t have waltzed right into such an obvious trap!

She fights her weakening consciousness, battling back the fuzzy darkness that threatens her vision with sheer will alone. But even her will isn’t strong enough to overcome whatever she’s been drugged with. The last thing Allura sees before she succumbs are sentries emerging from the beaded drapes behind Hozlil’s chair.

* * *

Allura gives a bodily jerk, whipping her head vigorously.

 _Stay awake!_ she mentally commands herself, the lingering effects of the drugs washing over her like a tide.

She feels impossibly heavy, reality muffled and distorted around her. Her eyes close and she forces them back open, wriggling the remnants of numbness out of her limbs.

The first sound she deciphers is her own ragged breath. The second is laughter. Ugly, spiteful laughter.

“Back with me already, princess?” mocks a voice of venom and spades and nothing good.

Allura squints, trying to blink the bleariness out of her eyes. Calloused fingers pinch her chin and wrench her face off to the side. Allura grunts and her vision finally clears enough for her to make sense of her surroundings.

Metal walls. Glowing, violet panels. She’s on a Galra ship. She’s suspended from the ceiling of a Galra ship, she discovers next, glancing below to confirm that no, it’s not being drugged that makes her feel like she’s floating. He feet aren’t touching the floor. They hover just above it, a stiff breeze catching the sweat between her toes. 

Her shoulders throb dully in their sockets and her arms are inelastic when she tries to pull them down, the shackles cinching tighter around her wrists. Her captor jerks her chin so that they’re face to face and if Allura’s mouth weren’t so dry, she would spit in her face.

She’s wearing standard Galra armor but she can’t be Galran, at least not fully. Twin thick, curving horns protrude from her temples and twirl down to pointed tips jutted forward. Her ears on the other hand, point downward, large and rounded. Her flesh appears Galra though, dusky purple gradient.

She has Galra claws, something Allura doesn’t see but feels as her captor’s thumb presses deep enough into her skin to draw blood. Allura jerks, swings a leg up to kick at her hip but she can’t get the power she wants behind the blow.

Her captor’s caught off guard anyway, losing her grip on Allura’s chin as she stumbles back a few steps. Allura takes the opportunity to shapeshift, willing herself to shrink her way out of the shackles. But the moment her body begins to change, a violent electric current surges forth, throttling her into a fully body muscle spasm.

Every fiber of her being’s on fire, a hundred lightning bolts crackling through her bones. A hellish screech she doesn’t recognize is ripped right out of her lungs as the voltage rages on. It ceases as abruptly as it began and Allura is left twitching in her confines, panting wildly.

“Ooh,” coos her captor. “It appears you’ve dampened your dress.”

She snatches the wetted fabric of the skirt between Allura’s thighs and gives it a churlish yank. Embarrassment swells like a balloon in Allura’s chest, but she refuses to let it show. Her accident was not from fear, her body simply lost control of its liquid capacity in the throes of electrocution. She will not be intimidated. She lifts her chin and fixes a smoldering glare on the Galra soldier.

“So angry,” she remarks, releasing Allura’s skirt and grinning as she plants her hands on her hips. “I like it though. It’d be boring if you didn’t fight.”

“I win my fights,” Allura states icily.

“You’ve won them thus far,” corrects the Galra solider. “That’s why you’re such a valuable catch. When I turn you over to the Empire, they’re going to have to recognize me, even if I am a half-breed. No more overseeing some pathetic pebble of a planet, I’ll finally have a respectable post.”

Allura swings back and thrusts both feet forward, aiming for the Galra’s chest. This particular move, un-subtle and restricted, with her limbs still weak from aftershock, is futile. She knows this even as her captor laughs and whisks out of range. It’s the principle of it that matters. She isn’t going to give in. This move won’t free her, no, but when she’s caught her breath and had time to formulate, she will pull something that does.

“I don’t want to gift you to the Empire just yet,” she titters as she slinks forward again, flashing Allura a gloating grin. “I want to savor this success. I want to play with you a little while longer.”

“I wouldn’t be so arrogant if I were you.” Allura curls her lip, fuming at herself as much as she is the gall of her captor.

She should have been more cautious. She should smelled that something was off. She was so enthused by the prospect of another alliance that she didn't stop to consider questioning its circumstances. 

The soldier pulls a baton from her belt and pushes down on a button on its side. It hisses softly and the baton lengthens into a proper handle, concurrently spitting out a great length of cord. A whip. The Galra soldier cracks it at the floor beneath Allura’s dangling feet just to make her flinch, the sound reverberating through the room.

Allura braces herself for the blow that is sure to come next, steeling her eyes and clenching her teeth hard. She won’t cry out no matter how much it hurts, she won’t allow this loathsome fiend to have the satisfaction of hearing any of her pain verbalized.

Three seconds later the whip strikes diagonally across her torso, knocking her breath away, not only ripping into her dress but digging viciously into her skin. Allura nearly loses her silent vow then and there, a scream just barely contained at the edge of her lips. She underestimated how much this would hurt, underestimated the weapon itself.

She glances down and sees that the cord isn’t smooth, hundreds of tiny barbs protrude like feline claws, embedding right into her skin. Blood as vibrant pink as her facial markings outlines the tattered tear in her dress like messy lipstick.

The Galra soldier wrenches the whip viciously, fully swerving her upper body to free it from Allura’s flesh in one rapid movement. There’s this wet, leathery sound that pops in the air as the barbs take chunks of her meat off. A torrent of blood slaps the floor, even louder than the cruel cackle of her torturer.

Allura reflexively thrashes against the pain, stomach churning. She resists the urge to look down at herself, squeezes her eyes shut tight. No good will come if she can’t handle what it is she’ll see, she can’t maintain control of the situation if she’s rattled out of her composure. She has to keep her wits about her, she has to—

The whip strikes again, its thorns piercing the stretch of skin from Allura’s hip to beneath her sternum. Her teeth clack together harshly as it's torn free again, the pain ratcheting up to her skull. Stars burst behind her eyelids and the Galra solider just cackles some more, gleefully, madly even.

The third strike snags around the sensitive skin of Allura’s armpit and catches the side of her breast. An unbidden yelp wrests itself out of her, the sound as weak and pitiful as a mouse’s squeak. She has no control whatsoever, dismal acceptance severing something inside her like the snip of a thin thread.

Then the whip is again yanked back, more of her meat flayed and more of her blood squirting forth. Her captor wastes no time, lashing out with a flourish. Cartilage or bone, or possibly both crunches as Allura's struck directly in her knee, the tip of the whip winding back to bite into the flesh behind. She cries out again, louder, her pride forsaken in the wake of sheer pain. 

When it's ripped out of her yet again, Allura reaches her limit. 

The last thing she hears before she faints is even louder, frenzied cackling.

* * *

Vivid, neon green streaks through the air. Allura is aware of falling, hitting something solid but not nearly smooth enough to be the floor. Her eyelids flutter, blurry shapes and colors pirouetting through the air. There’s a lot of noise too, yells and grunts and clangs and clashes.

“What the heck is this, liquid bubblegum?”

“No, look, it’s—“

“Oh! Oh shit…A-Allura?”

Allura recognizes her name and struggles a bit in response, trying to get upright. She can’t find the strength, however, and whatever she landed on has restraints. Firm, sturdy restraints around her shoulders and under her knees.

“Allura, hey!”

“Can Alteans die of blood loss?”

“Yes,” Allura grumbles hoarsely, grimacing at the way her throat protests speech. “But I won’t.”

Only then does she register the throbbing of her wounds. The pain had never gone away, it’s only taken a moment for her mind to catch up. She opens her eyes again, finding herself in Shiro’s grasp. He doesn’t look cogent though, he’s all pinpoint pupils and eyes bulging. The rest of her paladins are there too, save for Hunk.

They’re all wearing similar expressions. Allura swallows, notes the fallen heap of her captor on the floor a few lengths away. There’s also some oil and sentry scraps scattered about, her own blood dull with dryness in some haphazard splatters and glistening in others. She’s aware of how shredded her dress is, the fabric stained and clinging to her wounded form in tatters.

“Please,” she starts, willing her straining voice not to falter. “I need something to cover with…I don’t want Coran to see.”

She needs to spare him from as much of the sight as she can. He’s already going to be heartbroken simply because this happened to her. She’s fully aware that she’s the most important thing left in his life, his driving force. She knows he wouldn’t recover from a glance at the gruesome display she's been turned into now, chunks of flesh hacked out of her by the whip’s relentless lashes. Blood drying in rivers wept down from the ragged slashes all across her skin, splashed on a dress that’s too torn to conceal any of it.

“Don’t worry, Allura.” Pidge’s tiny hand hovers over her brow. “There’s bound to be something on the Yellow Lion.”

Allura nods, then looks over to the Galra soldier again. “Is she dead?”

“No,” Lance says. He’s trying not to look at her, whether out of mindfulness to her exposure or out of horror of her injuries, Allura isn’t sure. Perhaps both. “Just knocked out.”

“Do you want her dead?” Shiro asks, in a murmur so low Allura almost thinks it’s a question intended for her ears alone.

“If we have time,” Allura says, surprising every paladin in the room with the cutting edge of ice she manages in a voice so strained, “cut off her horns.”

Keith nods, eyes narrowing. He shears them off with two swift swipes of his bayard. He strides back over and in a gesture that truly makes Allura feel like royalty again, more than any kind of posh politeness or mannerisms she displayed during today’s sham with the insincere queen, he drops to one knee and bows his head as he presents them to her.

It's so uncanny. It certainly isn't a gesture she would expect from any of her paladins, let alone Keith. He's normally so gruff and offhanded. 

“No,” Allura refuses gently, despite the smile that tugs at her lips. “They aren’t trophies. I’m no sadist, Keith, just leave them where she can see them when she wakes up.”

Allura had warned the soldier that she won her fights. She never said that she won them alone.

* * *

Hunk starts crying as soon as they get her back on the Yellow Lion. It isn’t a gradual thing, a tear or two trickling down. He takes one look at her and immediately breaks into great, gulping sobs.

“I’m alive,” she declares, because he’s so distraught she isn’t sure he knows.

“Keep it together,” Shiro orders, not unkindly. “You have to get us out of here.”

Hunk’s eyes keep on flooding, but he nods in affirmation and refocuses on the control panel. Lance spreads a foil blanket out on the floor of the cockpit and Shiro crouches, gently laying her down. Allura picks her head up and takes another look at herself, scowling. Nasty wounds, the deepest parts apt to scar. They aren’t life threatening, however, and that will have to suffice. They smart something terrible though.

Constant pulsations of pain are possibly the only thing towing Allura to her consciousness. Fatigue and blood loss push and pull at her until she feels heavy, dizzy, her eyelids drooping. She lets her head drop back only to find it in Pidge’s lap and blinks up at her, mildly bemused.

“I know I’m not the greatest pillow, especially not with the armor and all, but I’ve gotta be better than the floor, right?” Pidge’s dry tone doesn’t fully mask the quivering of her voice, not to Allura’s ears anyway.

“Better than the floor,” she agrees. “Thank you.”

Shiro cleans her gashes out with the antiseptic in the first aid kit, this spray that stings initially and then feels pleasantly cool. He tenderly rolls thick, fabric strips of self-adhering bandage over each cut, only pressing with the lightest amount of pressure to ensure they stick. Allura doesn’t flinch. Shiro dips an unused portion of bandage in a sanitizing solution, wetting it enough to serve as a washcloth.

It’s a relief as he gently dabs it to her skin, washing away the sticky streaks of blood. His face is stony but his touch is sensible, equal parts rehearsed and attentive. Allura is too drained, too hurt to do it herself. It doesn’t mean she likes this.

She appreciates her team, coming for her and caring for her. Even so, this shouldn’t have happened to begin with. Allura can handle herself. Or at least, she should be able to handle herself. But she was caught off guard and now she’s paying the price, and they are too. Even if they are her family now, she can’t help feeling undignified like this.

So weak she can scarcely stay conscious, bloodied and wounded and in a state so poor a glimpse made Hunk cry.

“I need cover,” she reminds them, clearing her throat. “Coran…”

“We didn’t forget,” Shiro says, tight-lipped as he glances around the cockpit.

The Yellow Lion isn’t exactly equipped with a dresser. Allura knows this of course, but there has to be _something_ she can use. She simply can’t let him see her like this.

“Are there stitches in there?” Lance asks, nodding to the first aid kit.

Shiro nods.

“I can sew, I’ll fix her dress.” Lance sits down next to Shiro and gives her a sympathetic look. “It won’t be perfect but I’ll do my best, okay princess?”

“Thank you.” Allura goes slack with relief.

* * *

Allura takes two steps from the cryo-pod when Coran swoops in, squeezing her with all his might. Allura softens in the embrace, looping her arms around his neck and squeezing back tight enough to soothe his tremors.

“I’m alright,” she promises, resolute and mellow. “Really, I’m alright.”

“You gave me quite the scare,” he says, and there’s this catch in his throat that tells her he might cry.

“It wasn’t the first one,” she murmurs. “It won’t be the last.”

“I know,” he admits, holding her even tighter if only for a moment.

When he finally lets go, he kisses her forehead, his mustache itchy and tickling at the same time. Allura makes a face, but kisses his cheek all the same and then turns to the paladins, all gathered around. They welcome her back with waves and smiles. The mice are there too, offering a chorus of their own delight and scampering up to sit on her shoulders.

Hunk made dessert. It smells sweet and powdery and Allura is warmed by the gesture, but she has to change first. The mice climb down to sniff at it, and Plachu is even daring enough to steal a bite. No one else notices, Allura’s still the cynosure of everyone’s focus.

She politely declines the offers of assistance as she excuses herself.

She makes her way to her quarters, pausing in front of her full-length mirror.

Her dress is asymmetrical from being sewn where there was no longer enough fabric. The stitches themselves are rudimentary from the rush, uneven and conspicuous. The blood stains are duller now that they’re dry. An odor clings to the fabric; stale blood, stale piss, stale sweat. Perhaps she’ll be better off burning the garment, no matter how much sentimental value it holds.

She unzips it and peels it off, squiggling her hips until it pools around her feet. She kicks it away and studies her reflection without it. As suspected, she’s scarred in some places. Puckered tissue, thick like ropey grubs. Nowhere anyone will see though.

Allura spritzes herself with some perfume just to cloak any odor that may linger on her skin. She gathers her hair off her neck and into a bun. There will be time for proper bathing and grooming later, for now she just needs to be presentable enough to engage with her paladins and maybe open a wormhole, depending on where they are and where they’re headed.

She nearly bumps into Shiro as she leaves her room, stopping short with surprise. He lowers the hand that was raised to knock and steps aside.

“Oh,” Allura says, blinking uncertainly.

“I wanted to check in,” he clarifies, jaw firmly set but his gaze floccus soft. “Are you okay?”

Allura smiles but it’s too dim, too tired. She knows this in the way it pinches her face and allows it to fade when Shiro reaches for her shoulder.

“I have to be okay, don’t I?” Her responsibilities, her goals, and her paladins compulsively flash through her mind. “They look to me for an example, but not as much as they look to you. And that’s exactly why you understand.”

“That’s the thing, Allura, I do understand.” He squeezes her shoulder. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here. You can trust me.”

Allura considers, this foul taste crawling into her throat as she recalls the precise echo of her blood slapping the floor. She thinks of the crooked smirk on her Galra captor’s lips, its haughty curve and violet hue. She clenches her fists with the thrum of electrocution’s sequela and exhales slowly.

“Not now,” she says.

“When you’re ready,” Shiro agrees. 

She puts her hand over his and squeezes gently, a silent _thank you._  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Warning! If you are triggered by character death, you probably want do NOT want to read this chapter! There is no actual character death, it is only simulated character death, but in context is treated as real and withstanding. I didn't tag it in the Archive Warnings because I'm not sure it would count, since it's not actual character death but I tagged it in the Additional Tags and I'm warning again here because I definitely don't want to trigger anybody. 
> 
> Second warning here, just to safe. Be careful, multiple character deaths ahead! Well, not actually, but it reads that way in context so yeah! Be aware! 
> 
> And on that note, this part is over the top and somewhat gory. To be honest, this would've worked much better as a long fic but I didn't really think that through until I was done with 6k words. And it's what I have for whump week, so oh well. Totally inspired by Star Trek: The Next Generation, s5e25.

Shiro is concussed as he drags himself along. His helmet had been cracked when it took a blow from a weapon like a mace. His head swims dizzily, an axe grinding in the center of his skull. There’s vomit dried on the front of his suit even though he doesn’t remember throwing up.

He doesn’t remember how he got here, actually, at the edge of this thicket of tightly curled, bristly vegetation. The hit he’d taken was impairing the functions of his helmet as much as his ability to think. The night-vision glitches in and out, killing any and all visibility when it’s out. He doesn’t believe his eyes will adjust to the dark at all if he takes it off, not here.

He remembers being wounded and retreating, defeated by a Galra general on their mission to evacuate this planet so umbral it was essentially sunless. The Quintessence had been sapped out of it by Zarkon’s witch, leaving it too unstable for its eyeless, translucent people to inhabit. His team must still be fighting but he’s lost communication and he has no idea how long he blacked out for.

Shiro’s concussion protests the strain when he tries to remember what happened after he got away. Reaching for recollection feels abrasive, pinching his thoughts into pulp and preventing him from processing them at all. He feels like he’s trapped on carousel in overdrive and finds himself weakly coughing up some more vomit, heady chunks spilling down his chin.

Shiro stumbles into the thicket, grasping at the bristly coils of alien plant life just to stay on his feet. He follows the path they take him down, the ground viscous and unstable beneath him. It’s almost like a swamp but perhaps that’s the concussion playing tricks on him.

At some point the vegetation he’s grasping for isn’t there. He trips over clumsy feet and lands on what must be a giant sponge. A gauzy mist seems to rise from its bottom, growing thicker and thicker. Shiro expects it to choke him, but no, he can breathe fine. This only offers a scrap of relief.

He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. He tries to think and he can’t, his head pounding and his coherent thought reduced to nothing but senseless scribbles.

He hopes his team comes soon.

* * *

Shiro doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he wakes up in his room on the castle. He snaps to a sit and whips his head from side to side, ascertaining his surroundings.

It’s the same. His tablet is where he left it. His vest is on the floor. Shiro scrambles out of bed, getting tangled in the blanket and nearly tripping on his mad dash to the mirror. His reflection looks back at him, wide-eyed and gaping, but not an injury in sight.

There’s no telltale bump on his head. The chest wound is gone, only old scars peeking at him when he rolls his top up.

Huh. A nightmare then. This is surprising but realistic enough, Shiro supposes. He has vivid nightmares all the time. Normally they aren’t as linear as the one he just had, normally they aren’t quite that detailed or expansive.

Nonetheless, that’s the only explanation. He’s here now. He isn’t hurt.

Shiro sighs heavily and scrubs his flesh hand over his face, this ill feeling heavy in his stomach. Dream or not, it doesn’t sit right. He feels jarred and waterlogged in an odd sort of way. The images still flash through his mind, the eerily linear experience leaving a chill under his skin.

Shiro changes into his normal clothes and leaves his room, nearly tripping over Pidge in the hall. She’s got her laptop open, involved in some kind of coding, the algorithms reflected in her glasses.

“Morning,” he says.

“Hey.” Pidge doesn’t even look up. “There you are.”

“Was I missed?” Shiro asks, maybe a little too quickly. He doesn’t want to concern her over as something as routine for him as an unsettling nightmare. Even if this one was, well, abnormally unsettling.

Pidge does look up this time, blinking owlish eyes. “Not exactly. Still, you’re usually the first person up. And you’re in last place today.”

“Ah.” Shiro frowns, licks his lips.

Pidge tips her head, worry painting her features. “You okay?”

“Sure.” Shiro gives himself a mental shake. “Just a bit surprised myself. Guess I really needed the sleep.”

“Well, that part’s no surprise.” Pidge rolls her eyes and looks back to her screen.

Shiro heads to the bridge to find Hunk and Coran arguing about something, probably kitchen rights going by the faint scent of something burning in the air. Allura is cross-legged on the floor and playing with the mice, rolling a small hoop they take turns jumping through. She sees him and nods a greeting, but the other two are too absorbed to take notice.

Everything seems normal enough.

Shiro wanders around, feeling like he has to find Keith and Lance just to get all his ducks in a row. Just to confirm he’s the only one who has any kind of sense of un-reality, to confirm he’s only had a rough nightmare and that nothing is truly amiss.

He finds Lance first, in the hanger and polishing the Blue Lion’s claws. He’s singing something or other while he does it, the tune more familiar than the lyrics. Shiro doesn’t want to interrupt but Lance notices before he can sneak away, muting mid-song and turning to him.

“Hey, Shiro.”

“Sorry to break your concentration.” Shiro smiles sheepishly.

“Nah, you’re good.” Lance waves a hand. “I’m just bringing out Blue’s shine. We both like looking our best.”

“Of course. Don’t let me stop you.” Shiro chuckles and leaves him to it.

Yeah, everything seems pretty normal. His sense of wrongness is starting to dissipate. It was a creepy dream, creepy and bizarrely sequential. It was a dream though.

Shiro finds Keith on the training deck, doing a number on the gladiator. When he spots Shiro in his peripheral he finishes it off and dematerializes his bayard. He shuffles over as combs some of his sweaty hair back, panting softly.

“You slept in,” he says, eyes sharpening as he studies Shiro. “I hoped that was a good sign, but going by the way you look…”

“I’m fine.”

Keith gives him a flat stare of disbelief.

“Alright,” Shiro relents. “So I had a bad dream. It’s not a big deal, it just shook me up a little.”

“You look kinda pale…”

“I’ll feel better after I eat and get busy.”

“Okay.” Keith nods. “I’ll go back to the kitchen with you. I’m done here.”

Shiro gladly accepts the company. Sometimes he needs space to recuperate from his nightmares or flashbacks, or just those relentless streaks of restlessness. This is not one of those times. Right now company and conversation will be appreciated, help him find his footing in reality.

* * *

Shiro doesn’t think much about his dream, normalcy resumes and he shakes off the dark clouds that linger.

None of the details fade though, and that’s a little odd. So he still thinks about it here and there.

But three days later real life takes a hit that doesn’t leave any space for him to worry about a stupid dream.

* * *

Liberating work camps is something they’ve down several times. They have a basic strategy that gets modified depending on the specific camps, of course, but the core remains the same: divide and conquer.

Well, no, divide and rebel against the conquering actually.

This time around some explosion or another knocks out their communication. Shiro is on edge but he’s not actually worried, not until he and Lance have got all their freed prisoners situated, whether in cryo-pods or escape pods and the others still haven’t returned.

He’s going to go back for them, and then Coran calls him back.

“They just landed,” he informs, nodding to the control panel.

And Shiro nods, stilling. He feels marginally better but something is wrong. For some inexplicable reason, he intrinsically knows that something is wrong, he just doesn’t know how wrong.

Not until Keith and Pidge stumble in, one of his hands spread between her shoulder blades. It’s like he’s using the touch to guide her because she won’t look up from the bloodied and torn orange scrap of fabric she keeps twirling through her fingers. A similarly bloodied and cracked half of the yellow paladin helmet is clipped to Keith’s belt.

Shiro’s heart plummets to the pit of his gut and Allura gasps from somewhere behind him, Lance freezing in place to his left.

They don’t need to say anything at all, because striking absences and freshly splattered mementos say more than enough.

“Hunk didn’t make it,” Keith tells them anyway, low and bleak.

Pidge says nothing, doesn’t even look up, just keeps playing with that headband. Lance drops like all his strings have been severed in one snip, knees hitting the floor. Shiro should comfort him, but he can’t tear his gaze from the bloody part of Hunk’s helmet. He walks over absently, not even realizing he’s moved until he brushes metal fingers right over the fractured shell and leaves streaks, the blood smearing.

It’s still wet.

This is his fault. Shiro’s the leader, it’s his job to take care of them. Where exactly did he go wrong today?

Which call was the wrong call?

What obstacles did he fail to account for?

Guilt stretches the span of his chest, heavy as a concrete encasement. His last conversation with Hunk had been casual, a back and fourth he doesn’t remember word for word about some of his arm’s potential functions. They’d started out serious considerations but by the end of it they were mostly joking with suggestions like “mouse-sized fajita grill” and “instant alarm clock crusher.”

Allura asks how.

Keith swallows, says one of the warden’s guards ran him down in an artillery cruiser. Lance lets out this godawful wail and Coran immediately goes to him, kneels down and pulls him in so that the next wail is muffled into his chest.

There are things Shiro waits to ask when Lance isn't in the room, when it’s maybe a varga or so, or who the fuck even knows, later. When he’s holed up in Hunk’s room with the doors sealed and Allura has the mice discreetly monitoring from the vent just in case his grief gets dangerous. Shiro will talk to him, but he’ll talk to him after he’s given him some privacy to cry and time to do whatever it is he’s doing in there.

Presently he raises his head and clears his throat and asks, “Was it quick?”

“Not quick enough,” Keith fires off, doesn’t even need time to think about it. He pushes himself up from the couch and lets himself explode, pounding his fist into the wall and snarling between his teeth.

Shiro normally discourages his explosions, but today he doesn’t have the incentive or the strength.

“You guys were with him, right? He wasn’t alone?”

“He was,” Pidge says shakily, looking up for the first time since they came back. “We saw and I tried to…” her voice breaks as she balls up the headband in her hands. “I tried to get…” Her voice crumbles away from her again and she just shakes her head, shuddering as a sob squeaks out.

Shiro covers his eyes with his hand and rakes in a coarse breath. He feels sicker than sick and this is his fault, it’s his fault, Hunk died messy and alone, and it’s all his fault because he should’ve been a better leader.

* * *

It’s an unsteady kind of recovery. This oppressive absence that just eats away at everyone and sometimes coping methods clash. Pidge wants to scrap every project they started together, Lance won’t part with anything Hunk touched. Keith keeps exploding by himself and trying to snatch some of the blame Shiro knows belongs on his shoulders, sometimes fiercely chewing into him for bearing it so silently.

Time goes on anyway. They carry on anyway. It takes nearly a year for them to find a pilot for the Yellow Lion. None of them are accepted by it. The Yellow Lion puts up its barrier and refuses to even let them past that. Lance is the only exception.

Its interesting, really. It will let Lance past the barrier, even let him sit inside the cockpit. But it won’t be piloted by him. Not him, not any of them.

They do alright without Voltron for awhile but eventually the Robeasts are just too much to handle without it.

So Allura combs the crowds of the allies they form along the way, invites a couple potential candidates she sees to be put to the test. Eventually they go back to the Balmera and find a paladin in Shay. She somberly steps into the barrier and puts her hand to the Yellow Lion’s leg just as she does to the Balmera’s walls.

It roars for her and Shiro is there when Allura presents her with paladin armor and tells Shay something that rings too familiar.

“I’m afraid the yellow bayard was lost with its paladin.”

* * *

Another year and a half, maybe even two, and Lance is taller than Shiro. Not by much, but he is all the same. He doesn’t get any broader, just a little taller. Still as slim as an eel and moves like one too, slick and quick.

But he’s not quick enough when he comes racing, screeching.

“Shiro, look out, look out!”

Shiro hears the crackling shot from an automated ground blaster he doesn’t see as Lance barrels into him. They go rolling in a tangle of limbs. When the momentum runs out, Lance is slack and leaden on top of him. Shiro realizes he’s been hit even before the whiff of burned flesh invades his nostrils.

Shiro sits up, the panic scattering through his veins like crabs in the sand as turns Lance over in his arms. He bites back his scream when he gets a full view of the hole, the still sizzling, smoking hole as big around a grapefruit in his gut. The hole is ringed by blistery charred meat, no blood.

The only blood is a thin trail at the corner of Lance’s trembling mouth. He isn’t dead, not yet. He’s staring up at Shiro with wide, terrified eyes and wheezing faintly. Shiro carefully tugs his helmet off and cups the back of head with his flesh hand, feathering gentle fingers through his hair.

“You’re okay,” he says, getting all choked up and trying his damned best to keep his voice dulcet anyway. This is his fault, the least he can do is comfort the kid. “Hey, you’re okay.”

Lance bobs his head like he’s trying to believe him. Shiro ardently hopes that he does. He kisses his brow, already unpleasantly cool and damp with drying sweat.

“You did good,” he praises warmly, even though inside he’s writhing because he’d give anything, _anything_ for Lance to not have done what he just did. “You just saved my ass. So don’t worry, I’m gonna save you too.”

Lance blinks at him, slow, eyes getting hazy. Shiro thinks he’s still coherent enough to hear him though. Shiro wonders if he’s still his hero, if he’s managed to keep the slot as a handful of years have come and gone. Shiro doesn’t deserve the title, never did, doesn’t now. But if Lance still sees him as a hero, then maybe he can still believe Shiro will save him, and he won’t die scared.

He dies quietly, but scared or not, Shiro can’t tell. One second Lance’s chest is moving and the next it’s not, and Shiro’s still rambling on in a milk and honey voice about how everything’s going to be okay. It takes him a moment to catch up to the reality that it’s done, Lance is gone, Lance is a corpse now, and then he’s screaming.

This is his fault, he should’ve been more aware, he should’ve had his shield ready, he should’ve—

There’s everything he should’ve done and everything he didn’t do, and he can stab himself forever with hindsight’s clarity but the worst cannot be changed.

* * *

They hold a funeral of a sort. Shiro brings his body back. It’s the respectful thing to do and this time it’s an option, there’s enough of a body to bring back in one piece. So there’s a funeral which consists of Alteans decorating everything in pink, Keith’s offhanded but well meant eulogy in a voice that cracks, Pidge as silent as a stone with Lance’s jacket tied around her waist, and Shay’s refusal to eat anything.

Shiro is surprised at Shay the most, after all, it’s not as though she and Lance had been particularly close. For the longest time he could barely look at her because she was the Yellow Lion’s replacement goldfish (his words, not Shiro’s). He didn’t dislike her, it was just difficult for him when she was there specifically because his best friend _wasn’t_. It hurt and Shiro understood that, so did Shay herself.

They’d fostered a camaraderie since then, but it still comes as a shock that she won’t eat. This is apparently misperception on Shiro’s part, however. Shay isn’t so sick with grief she can’t eat, fasting is simply what Balmerans do in mourning. It's as customary as pink to Alteans, as much as incense and candles are to him. 

Shiro on the other hand, is sickened out of an appetite. He robbed Lance of the rest of his life because he was unprepared in Galra territory. He doesn’t deserve to eat, he doesn’t deserve to lead, he doesn't even deserve to be here when Lance took the hit that should’ve been his.

Keith tells him it’s not his fault, sometimes forcefully, sometimes tearfully. Keith is wrong, of course. Keith just wants to protect him, always wants to protect him, even from his own burdens. Shiro knows better than to put stock in Keith’s bias just to offer himself a peace of mind he hasn’t earned.

Pidge draws into herself more than ever, insular and snappy and sleepless. She still hasn’t found her family and she keeps losing the family that found her. Who could blame her?

She always keeps just one relic, thus far ones she can wear. Commander Holt’s faded shirt at night, Matt’s glasses during the day, Hunk’s headband around her wrist, and now Lance’s jacket tied around her waist.

She tries to isolate with her computer and her relics, but Shiro makes it a priority to talk to her. Talk to her, let her vent, let her shout or sob or throw herself into the distraction of project after project. He also monitors Keith’s fluctuating explosions and keeps a tighter leash on curbing them the moment a particularly nasty one leaves his knuckles blown open.

Coran and Allura, they handle everything with impressive stoicism. Shiro supposes they’ve had more than their fair share of practice, losing an entire planet with everyone and everything they knew in one fell swoop. They take turns trying to comfort everyone else in their own ways, sometimes odd ones.

It doesn’t take as long to find a pilot for the Blue Lion as it did to find a pilot for the Yellow one. Blue turns on for Allura and that’s that, she’s a paladin. It’s not exactly ideal when she’s the only one who can power the castle, but nothing is ideal anymore.

Piloting sentient lion robots was never ideal to begin with. 

* * *

Shiro grows his hair out over the next few years, five he thinks, although it’s difficult to keep track. Their fight is a never-ending one, but well, he supposes it’s only natural. The Galra Empire had over ten thousand years to expand. Voltron’s been revived for an infinitesimal fraction of that.

Coran and Allura don’t change much, save for gaining some scars. Shay doesn’t change at all. Keith fills out some more, loses the mullet for a shorter style. Pidge sports an undercut these days and the prominence of her cheekbones is a newer development. Pidge had swapped her blockers for some estrogen substitute Coran helped her derive from Altean hormones not that long after Hunk died.

Although she’s gotten a feminine shape, her growth spurt was a sad, piddling event. _Short-_ lived, as he likes to tease her. She’s still tiny, not even reaching five feet with her short arms and baby hands. On Earth she could probably pass for a kid.

“You could play skee-ball at Chuck E. Cheese’s and hit the bar after,” Keith describes so eloquently one day.

Pidge rolls her eyes and gives him a playful punch in the shoulder.

* * *

Pidge’s small size races through Shiro’s mind in a snow-blind storm of a thousand thoughts when she’s unzipped by a piece of flying shrapnel. Blood geysers out of her in a relentless gush and Shiro can barely believe that just so, _so_ much could spray out of such a teeny little person.

Her insides become her outsides, tumbling from her bisected torso in slick tangles. Pidge is dead before she hits the ground and Shiro hears the nauseating thud her body makes when it drops. A soft squishing noise follows it, her viscera crushed under the weight of the corpse.

More dangerous things are flying through the air as the bombings continue, wreaking havoc on the planet they’d been conducting diplomacy with. Shiro can’t stay where he is so he takes one last look at Pidge and takes off running. He needs to find the rest of his team, or get to the Black Lion, or something, anything.

But Pidge— Oh god, Pidge!

The ground rattles with impact after impact, screaming aliens zooming in a flurry all around him, hysteric and desperate. Shiro should be formulating a plan of action but he’s just going, going like a bullet as his heartbeat hammers in his ears.

Shiro feels vile, leaving her like that. Leaving what was left of her rather, the gruesome piñata one disk of soaring shrapnel managed to mangle her into.

She didn’t see it coming. Hopefully she hadn’t even realized what was happening. Shiro doesn’t know what her last expression looked like. Her couldn’t see her face behind the surge of blood, not until she was falling, gaze already blank.

“Shiro!”

Shiro swivels his head, searching for the source of his name.

Allura. She’s kneeled on the ground beside a sprawled form. Shiro runs faster and any speck of hope that remained inside him is squelched when he sees.

Keith took something solid and heavy to the face. Shiro initially believes he’s dead with half of his face shaved off. His broken jaw hangs crooked, tongue lolling over the raw pulp of his lip. The only eye he has left is popping out of its socket.

“Where’s Pidge?” Allura asks.

Shiro can’t bring himself to speak and Allura gleans the answer for herself.

“I’m going to get the Blue Lion and try to stop this,” she says, but her voice is solemn and defeated. It’s an obligatory means to an end. Allura isn’t one to give up, neither of them are, but they aren’t fools either. “Take care of Keith.”

She lifts Keith’s hand to lovingly brush her lips over his knuckles and then entrusts it to Shiro’s grasp. This, this is when he realizes Keith’s still breathing. Tiny pockets of air form bubbles in the blood that streams from his nostrils. Shiro immediately laces their fingers together and holds Keith’s hand to his cheek.

Allura’s already gone when he glances back. Shiro doesn’t expect to see her again. Shiro returns his focus to Keith, heart wrenching painfully. He thinks he feels Keith’s fingers twitch between his but this is almost certainly wishful thinking.

“Hey, buddy,” Shiro rambles, even though he isn’t sure Keith can hear him. “Oh man, I can barely believe you’re as old as I was when we first found the Blue Lion. It’s crazy how much you’ve grown so much since then, I couldn’t be prouder. I should tell you that more often, I guess. You’re amazing, Keith...”

Shiro doesn’t know at which point it is exactly when Keith slips away, but sooner than later his hand is cold and his nose isn’t bleeding anymore at all. Shiro scoops him into his arms and he seems heavier than he did when he was alive, somehow. Shiro pushes his face into his hair, his nose brushing something moist and cold that could be an open wound, could even be brain matter for all Shiro knows.

He begins to cry, inhaling the flavor of raw meat all the while and nearly gagging between his sobs. As he carries on, Shiro becomes aware of a distant cracking noise. It doesn’t warrant much concern but it’s strange that it stands out among the screams because it’s so soft, so separate from everything else that’s happening.

Keith is dead in his arms, the image of Pidge’s blood and organs bursting out of her freshly emblazoned on the back of his eyelids, Allura gone off to a battle she knows she won’t win...and Shiro has attention to spare to some distant noise?

Only it isn’t quite as distant as it was. It sounds closer, sounds louder. He lifts his head but all he sees is opaque, black smoke. The cracking continues, growing sharper until it sounds like splintering glass.

The black smoke turns white and Keith’s weight— No, _Keith_ —disappears from his arms completely. Shiro is no longer kneeled on the ground, but upright inside something. The smoke is no longer acrid or thick, it’s fine and wet against his mouth. Shiro is acutely confounded beyond belief, he didn’t even blink and reality melted before his eyes.

Did Shiro teleport somehow?

It’s disconcertingly surreal; everything, everywhere, he can’t understand. And yet he recognizes this, it’s identical to a dream he never quite forgot. Shaking fingers skim his cheek and as the mist dissipates, Shiro finds himself face to face with a phantom.

Keith is staring up at him, in full red paladin armor, except it isn’t Keith, it can’t be Keith. Shiro snaps upright and seizes the imposter by throat with his prosthetic activated, squeezing harshly. The imposter squirms in his grip, eyes bulging. Of course it isn’t Keith, it has eyes left to bulge, it has an intact, too young face.

Yeah, the remnants of mist in the air and the tinted hue of the night-vision don’t make it immediately obvious, but as he peers closer he decides that whatever this thing is, clone, ghost, doppelgänger, it’s younger than the Keith that couldn’t have expired more than five minutes ago.

“Put him down! Shiro, you’re gonna kill him!”

Shiro’s blood turns to ice. He hasn’t heard that voice in years. He can’t be hearing it now, that’s not possible, none of this is possible. He flings the thing with Keith’s face away, not because the thing that has Lance’s voice told him to, but because he doesn’t actually have it in him to choke the life out of something that looks like Keith.

The Keith-thing bounces off a ribbed, spindly tree and falls coughing, and the Lance-thing scrambles to him. There’s a Pidge-thing and a Hunk-thing too, the latter taking a protective step in front of the former and raising its bayard, the long gone yellow bayard. All these ghosts are here in solid, whole form, staring at him openly.

Shiro screams, scrunching down in what he realizes is a hollowed out tree of the alien, spindly sort he threw the Keith-thing into. He doesn’t want to see them but he can’t rip his eyes away. He takes off his helmet so he doesn’t have to, an impenetrable curtain draping over the world. This is the place of the dream he’s never forgotten, essentially sunless and swathed entirely in shadows.

“You’re not real!” he shouts, anguished more than accusing. “Get away from me!”

“We are real,” the Pidge-thing insists. “You’ve been inhaling potent hallucinogenic toxins for over an hour, Shiro! Whatever you saw, that’s what’s fake!”

Shiro’s head hurts. Not only from bafflement but dull, throbbing. Like there’s an injury. He gingerly prods the source and finds a bump and blood dried crusty in his hair.

_His hair._

Shiro freezes and pats the back of his head with both hands, jolting with shock. It’s so short, a shaven fuzz over his scalp. It isn’t long anymore, there’s no curtain falling down his back. The closest thing he has to bangs is the soft tickle of his lone white streak against his forehead.

He couldn’t…No…it’s not possible. Hallucinations don’t work like that.

“Years,” he mutters, rocking slightly in the hollow tree’s cramped space. He hates being confined like this, but it’s better than crawling over the roots and being swarmed by the ghosts. “No, no, no, no, no. Years, I’ve— I’ve seen years!”

Seen them, lived them, endured them.

“I don’t fully understand this substances’s constitution but I’m not surprised it stimulated a lengthy experience,” continues the Pidge-thing. “We scanned you to make sure it was alright to move you and your scans are quiznaking crazy! You’ve developed an obscene amount of neural pathways in under two hours, and that’s just for starters!”

“Whatever this stuff is,” says the Hunk-thing, “you’re responding to it more like a virtual reality than a drug.”

It can’t be possible. Shiro tucks his head between his legs and heaves. He lost them, all of them, and that loss was real. Every time, another pierce of his soul torn right out of him. That kind of hurt couldn’t be fake, it just couldn’t. There were good times too, but…

Then it kind of hits him, that odd incongruence. Thinking is an immensely difficult task right now, both because his world has given way under his feet and bodily, he’s concussed. But every good memory he has of the last seven or so years is far less impressionable than every bad. There were good times, and he remembers them, yes, and they’re nice thoughts, nostalgic even…

But something about them wasn’t right. There were good times, but the good times seemed almost like he experienced them on autopilot. At the time Shiro had attributed that to depression putting a damper on things. But even that had never seemed quite right, actually. Motivation loss was staple of Shiro’s particular brand of depression, that and apathy, neither of which he can recall occurring in tangent with the good times.

He hadn’t been apathetic to the good times, they just felt _less._  Times he should have been on cloud nine, all he could muster was mild contentment. They weren’t the profound experiences of happiness he’d shared with his team prior even when they should’ve been, oh—

One moment he remembers especially vividly. Pidge had crashed Green and for far too long they couldn’t find her. That had been terrifying, that helpless cold-in-your-core kind of fear. And then they had found her, found her safe and totally unhurt, not even scratched. He should have been overjoyed…and he wasn’t. It was good to find her, it had felt _nice_ to find her, but it wasn’t…

Shiro puts his helmet back on with trembling hands. He looks down at his chest to see an open wound and dried vomit. His wound stings and the vomit stinks. These are details from a strangely linear dream from a memory that was supposedly seven years old, details that never faded with time as many of his other supposed seven year old memories had.

‘Pinch me, I’m dreaming,’ the old saying goes. Because physical pain isn’t a thing in dreams but in what Shiro had believed was the most incredibly linear, bizarre, and unsettling dream he had ever had, he felt the burn of his wound and the throb of his concussion.

Shiro looks again at the imposters who may not be imposters after all. He wants this to be the truth. He wants to believe them, that this is reality where they’re all alive, and they’re here to save him, here to take him to the castle that is his home. He wants reality to be this world where he hasn’t already failed to protect them.

But it’s hard to believe them when there are seven years worth of memories in his head that say this is impossible, even if those memories don’t seem quite right. The sheer bulk of them and the things he’s seen, things he’s seen just minutes ago even, seem far too real for whatever he’s seeing now to be.

Whatever Shiro was experiencing, real or not, it morphed before his very eyes into whatever he is experiencing now. What he’s experiencing now is harsh and jarring, incompatible with everything he thought he understood, and disturbing any semblance of stability that existed within him. What he’s experiencing now is infinitely better than what he was experiencing moments ago anyway, infinitely better than every grisly end.

Shiro grabs the gauntlet on his flesh arm and rips it away with a yank and gritted teeth. He tears away the fabric beneath. When his flesh is looking up at him, he has some scars, but not the one he’s looking for. He remembers getting attacked by some Galra’s guard yupper. He remembers carrying knotty scars for the past three years where its teeth punctured very deep, scars that aren’t there now as he fixates so hard on the unmarred skin he’s going crosseyed.

He swallows and slowly looks up to what he has the tentative, fragile faith to believe, are his teammates. His real teammates, breathing and unharmed.

“Toxins?” he asks, absently noting the sour aftertaste of vomit when his tongue touches the roof of his mouth.

Pidge bobs her head. “Yeah, I mean, I guess that’s the best way to describe them. I want to analyze a sample when we get back to the castle, they’ve had an unprecedented effect on you. Virtual reality was a good comparison. Thanks, Hunk.”

He gives her a nod and then turns back to Shiro, sighing sympathetically. “Your brain’s been scrambled, man.”

Shiro knows that for a fact, at least.

Keith has his breath back and Lance helps him stand, but tries to pull him back when he takes a step toward Shiro. He shakes him off and comes over anyway. Shiro looks up from the bottom of the tree, shambolic and reeling. He believes it _is_ Keith he's looking at though, blessedly living and moving. Keith, who doesn’t have even a hint of anger on his face when he looks at Shiro despite the handprint burned into his throat.

“We’re real,” he promises, extending his hand. “Come on, Shiro. It’s okay.”

Shiro takes his hand and Keith helps him to unsteady feet. Shiro grabs him next, just gathers him up in his arms and squeezes tight like he has to confirm his solidity, his realness. This is Keith, his Keith. And he’s here, with his face and everything.

“You’re alive,” Shiro gasps in relief, resting his chin atop his helmet. “You’re alive, you’re all alive.”

“Of course we’re alive,” Lance murmurs, his eyes soft and wet, puppy dog sad. “Oh man, Shiro, what the heck happened to you?”

“The worst,” Shiro admits.

* * *

The cryo-pod heals his injuries, but the dissonant experience of his false memories remains. Still, Shiro thinks it did something for them, possibly. They feel less distinct now. They feel more like lies when he steps out and is swept up in a tidal wave of relief to see their faces, this bubbling bliss that was impossible to feel for what he perceived as far too long.

The longest varga of Shiro’s life.

“I made daifuku,” Hunk babbles nervously. “Space daifuku anyway, which probably isn’t as good as Earth daifuku, and I’ve never even made that, so it might be bad. And if it is, I can totally make you something else, whatever you—“

Shiro presses his lips to his cheek, chaste and warm and halting him mid-sentence. Lance fills in the blanks with a loud squawk of surprise.

“I’m sure it’s just fine,” he hums.

Keith is hovering close like an uncertain watchdog, arms folded across his chest. Shiro realizes his neck is bandaged and frowns.

“You didn’t go in the pod?”

“No,” he says, Shiro wincing at the audible roughness. “I wanted to wait for you to come out. And don’t tell me to go in now, I don’t want to. I’d rather keep an eye on you.”

“You don’t have to do that, I’m fine.”

“So am I,” Keith insists. “It’s just bruising and a minor burn, right, Coran?”

“Right,” Coran agrees buoyantly. “Lucky too, that’s such a sensitive spot on you humans. If he’d snapped your spinal cord—“

Hunk abruptly puts a finger to his lips. “Yeah, we all know what would’ve happened, Coran. We don’t need to talk about that.”

Shiro gulps and casts a guilty look to his prosthetic hand. But then Keith’s own hand covers it. He lifts it and puts it to his neck, softly spreading metal fingers over the gauze.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Keith tells him as he holds it there, staring at Shiro with determination flared bright in his eyes. “You didn’t know it was me. I’m not upset about it and you shouldn’t be either. It wasn’t your fault.”

Shiro is so overcome with emotion that he can’t speak. He nods slowly. He doesn’t quite believe him, not yet. But Keith is here, everyone is here, and that’s the most important thing. Shiro nods again with more confidence and Keith gives him his hand back.

“I took a closer look at that toxin,” Pidge pipes up, moving in beside Keith and holding up a small holo screen. “Its chemical compound was nothing like anything we’re familiar with on earth, no surprise there. There were also traces of Quintessence and I guess that’s more surprising since the Galra sucked pretty much all of it out of that planet.”

“You still have the sample?” Shiro raises a brow.

“Yep.” She swipes the screen down. “What do you want me to figure out?”

“Nothing,” Shiro tells her. “Get rid of it. On the off change it breaks, I don’t want it anywhere near any of you.”

“I don’t think the little sample I took would have that much of an effect, especially considering we’re in a more ventilated environment…” she trails off slowly as she reads the look on Shiro’s face and then adjusts her glasses. “Yeah, sure, I can get rid of it.”

“Good.” Shiro ruffles his hand through her hair, fluffing it up like a baby chick’s feathers. Pidge lets him continue for a minute, but when she’s had enough, she bats him away.

“What exactly did you see?” Lance asks as he slinks up, as concerned as he is curious.

Shiro doesn’t answer. He simply places a hand on Lance’s stomach, fans his fingers and just rests it there. Lance’s mouth screws open, an unintelligible noise falling out. He doesn’t shrink back from the touch though. Shiro can still picture the hole in him, precise and smoking. He can even taste that wretched scorch of burnt meat in the back of his throat.

But what he’s feeling now is the healthy warm solidly of flesh under the fabric of Lance’s shirt. Tangible, whole, real. And Shiro’s elated to feel that, to trust that. He gives his stomach a gentle pat and then drops his hand.

“Um.” Lance looks to Hunk for reference, who then looks to Allura, equally confused. 

Allura clears her throat and places her hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

“The Sliyacks claim that you’re not the first to fall victim to that peculiar forest,” she says. “It was noted as a dangerous cite where many disappeared, never to be found. Those who did emerge often had difficulty understanding where they were and how much time had passed since they’d entered. Many of them denied entering the forest at all.”

Shiro tips his head back, supposing he might take comfort in that. He wonders how many Sliyacks’ experiences were similar to his own. Even if they hadn’t already been relocated to a sister planet in a different solar system, he doesn’t think he would have asked. He doesn’t want to talk about the harrowing years that didn’t happen and he certainly wouldn't want to make anyone else relive similar enduring tragedies that never were.

“I don’t suppose anyone explained why they never destroyed the forest?”

Allura shakes her head. "No. I didn't ask." 

Coran sidles up next to her and offers him a sympathetic smile. “Is there anything we can do to help you get acclimated?”

Shiro irresistibly thinks of Coran dressed in the most vivid of Altean mourning outfits, donning the garish shades of pink between liquid stomach medication and plastic lawn flamingo. He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the phony memory.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Keith’s hand curls around his elbow. “Do you want me to take you back to your room?”

“No, actually.” Shiro takes stock of his team, their worried faces and tender eyes. “It’s a relief to see everyone okay.”

So he needs to be around them, be surrounded by them. He’s afraid if he’s left to himself, all those things that never happened might convince him that they did. But he can’t say that, exactly. The words get stuck in his throat.

"Are you up for a movie?" Lance asks. "There's this one on Coran's shelf that totally looks like a space ripoff of _Jaws_." 

"Ripoff?" Coran echoes, scandalized. "That's ridiculous! Alteans were creating cinematic masterpieces before humans even lost their fur!" 

"You guys really think a horror movie is a good pick right now?" Hunk's face scrunches up in disapproval. 

"Maybe not." Lance gives Shiro an apologetic look. "So okay, what about the one with the yupper on the cover? That one looks pleasant." 

"The yupper dies at the end," Pidge states flatly. 

"Hey! On this castle, we warn for spoilers." Hunk glares at her and crosses his arms. 

"I've got a classic in mind," Allura hums, sharing a sly look with Coran. "If this is how you want to spent the evening, Shiro." 

"Actually, yeah," Shiro agrees. "A movie sounds good."  

* * *

 Keith remains close, tucked under Shiro's arm and resting his head against his collar. Pidge is under his other arm, but she's lying down with her head in his lap and the rest of her in Allura's lap. Allura rests her own head on his other shoulder and Coran is next to her with the mice in his hands. Even though a movie was Lance's idea, he must be tired because they're not even halfway through and he's already dozing on Hunk's shoulder, some drool dribbling out of his mouth. 

The longer they sit here, close with everyone breathing and being okay, the easier it is for Shiro to steal glances at that drool and not imagine blood.

It won't go away. It won't ever go away, his unwanted experience of everything wrong that never happened. It doesn't have to go away for him to know it wasn't real though, this he understands. 

Shiro's reality is the opposite, mostly. 

He can remember everything that happened to him in the seven years that weren't, but he can barely recollect bits and pieces of his apparently eventful year as a prisoner. A prisoner, The Champion, a gladiator. That year was real, the evidence tangible, but in his head it's mostly an absence. A hefty gap of fuzzy possibly-maybes, nightmares he can't dig the source out of, and scars his fingertips trace to no avail. Shiro remembers an excessive amount of what wasn't and struggles to scrounge up a reliable memory of what in fact, was. 

If he can trust that what he can't remember was, he supposes he also has to trust what he can was not. 

"You okay?" Keith whispers, the soft glow of the film reflected in his eyes. 

"Getting there," Shiro promises in earnest. 

Keith settles back against his collar, breath warm and welcome when it brushes Shiro's neck. Shiro finds himself focusing on that more than the screen, the gentle rhythm as reassuring as it is real. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew. This is ugly. This would've been better longer. This could've been much longer and cohesive but I just had to toss it in there for some week long event I'm late to in the first place wtf. I'm annoyed. It's going here anyway because I don't have anything else.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorta rushed this one since I was so late to the party already. So this one is shorter than all the other ones and half-baked, but the official week ended three days ago, so I'm gonna kill it here instead of continuing. I've got classwork and other fic that needs attention. 
> 
> And I have no idea how Allura's magic works, but there's a splash of it in here anyway because it's cool.

Pidge doesn’t think that much of it when she pricks her finger on the strangely pretty space flower. It only tears a small hole in her glove and draws just a bead of blood.

She shakes her hand out and shrugs. Oh well. She and nature simply don’t get along. Even space nature. She supposed she had a more positive outlook on this whole picnic-pit-stop thing because their spot is on Green’s home planet, but without the awe of encountering her lion for the first time, this forest is just another forest, space forest or not.

Plants don’t like her and she doesn’t like them.

She takes a picture of the space flower rather than try touching it again, and starts making her way back to the others.

Then she begins to itch. It’s annoying, at first. It feels like it begins in her pricked finger but it doesn’t take long at all for her entire arm to itch. Pidge ignores it. Paladin armor doesn’t permit scratching easily and it isn’t that bad of an itch.

Until it is.

What starts out as a petty annoyance begins to intensify with each step she takes. It spreads beneath her skin, sore and agitative. At first it’s just like a particularly uncomfortable mosquito bite, but it rapidly escalates.

It becomes excruciation, the skittering of thousands of hairy insect legs all across beneath her skin. Under her skin too even, inside her very veins. Pidge can’t take it. She urgently hurries through undressing, tugging her armor off piece by piece and hastily twisting out of her under-suit. It won’t come off fast enough for her desperate fingers and tears along the way.

She itches so bad it burns, and she has to scratch it away. She barely even notices the hard, ruddy bumps that have suddenly appeared on her skin. She just has to stop the itch, she can’t take the itch, the itch is raging through her like a flurry of fire ants.  
  
PIdge starts scratching mindlessly, desperately, all over. She twists around and drags her fingernails up the backs of her legs. She rakes them down her arms and claws at her stomach. She has to make the itch stop, but it just keeps getting worse.

It’s infuriating, the itch infesting her until it’s everywhere. Even the spaces between her toes, the places behind her ears. Pidge scratches with all her might, snarling like a flea-bitten beast. She scratches and scratches and scratches, until the skin curls up beneath her blunt little nails.

She doesn’t notice when she starts bleeding. It doesn’t matter that she’s bleeding, she just has to get rid of the itch. She scratches herself until she’s dug furrows into her flesh. The itch continues its silent rampage and she keeps scratching, skin slippery as the blood and sweat trickle between the bumps.

But no matter how hard PIdge tries, she can’t seem to scratch the itch away. It refuses to abate, it only flares hotter under the catch of her nails. She whimpers loudly, her attempts becoming more and more frenzied. She’s breathing hard now, her lungs shrunken around her heavy pants. Her throat feels too tight and gummy.

Pidge reaches under her bra to scratch her chest, scrubbing her nails into her skin. The itch flares up worse on her sides, so she violently drags her hands up and down, trying her hardest to kill it. She has to get rid of this unyielding itch, she has to scratch it out, she has to—

“Stop!” demands a startled voice she absently identifies as Lance’s, although she doesn’t look up.

She can’t bother with Lance right now, she has to get rid of the itch. But he grabs her the wrists from behind before she can keep scratching and raises them above her head. She tries to fight him, but he holds fast and she can’t break free. She whines in her throat, a low, pleading noise. He has to let go. She needs him to let go, she has to get rid of the itch.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he gasps. “Holy crow, Pidge, what’d you do?”

“Need to scratch,” she stresses, insistent, too anguished to care when her eyes mist over. “It itches!”

Lance swallows and cranes his head back over his shoulders, calling out. “Shiro! Allura!”

Pidge writhes, fingers twitching. Lance’s grip doesn’t let up. She isn’t sure how long she’s been scratching. Her hands are cramping up. But the itch remains, insufferable, taunting her. She wants to scream but she can’t find the power.

Before she knows it, Pidge is being swarmed. The rest of her team is here, gaping at her, worried and incredulous. None of them make Lance let go. They don’t understand how much she needs to scratch, they don’t understand how intense the itch is. Pidge groans, blinking out tears and digging her toes into the dirt.

“Help,” she whines. “Have to scratch it out.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Keith asks urgently.

Pidge is immediately peeved because she _just_ told him what’s wrong. She has to scratch it out! The itch is all encompassing, the prickling burn of sand in her eyes translated to every nerve in her body.

“No clue,” Lance says. “I just found her trying to scratch her skin off.”

“I might know what’s wrong.” Allura bends down to Pidge’s eye-level and puts her hands on Pidge’s face.

Her palms are a cool clemency to the hot, irritated flesh. Her touch is the only thing thus far that has eased any of the merciless itch.

“Did you touch a sparkly flower with black stripes?” Allura asks.

Pidge quickly bobs her head.

Allura sighs out heavily. “Okay. Don’t worry, you’re going to be alright.”

“Itches!” Pidge exclaims, a distressed economy of words. She just needs them to know so she can scratch, she has to scratch it out!

“I know.” Allura rests their foreheads together and the itch’s ferocity wavers some.

It’s still present but it becomes less overpowering, the level of intensity lessening. Pidge swallows and spends a moment breathing, getting a grasp on the whirlwind of her thoughts.

“How are you…?” Pidge trails off, blinking as she notices the soft glow of luminescent pink around Allura.

“I can’t cure it,” Allura clarifies quickly. “I can only suppress it until we get back to the castle. You’ll need an antidote and a bath.”

“It’s poisonous,” Pidge points out the obvious with a burdened sigh. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course not,” murmurs Allura. “You wouldn’t. You can’t scratch yourself anymore, alright? It isn’t going to help.”

“But it itches!”

“We’ll take care of that at the castle.” Allura grimaces sympathetically. “Try to bear it without making yourself bleed.”

“This is horrible.” Pidge bites her lip, groaning softly. “Let me go, Lance. I’m not gonna scratch.”

“You sure?” He sounds shaky, still a tad freaked out.

“Yes! Ugh, I won’t scratch! I just wanna go back to the castle!”

Lance lets her go and Pidge balls her hands into fists to keep her end of the bargain. She is surprised by what happens next. Allura picks her up. She startles and lets out a squeak of protest as the faintly glowing Atlean sweeps her off her feet.

“I have to be touching you to keep the itching sensation at bay.”

"Warn me next time?" Pidge grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest.

Now that she's not being completely consumed by the itch, she belatedly realizes she's only clad in her bra and underwear. She feels her cheeks flush and tucks her face into Allura's shoulder. Her team isn't looking at her like that, of course, they never would. The only stares she's getting are concerned ones. But it's still embarrassing and awkward all around. 

"Picnic's over," Shiro announces needlessly. "Hunk, can you grab Pidge's suit?" 

"Sure thing." 

Pidge muffles a groan into Allura's shoulder. 

* * *

 

The antidote is unpleasant. It's a series of shots and while Pidge is no stranger to needles, it doesn't make the experience of ones as long as pencils repeatedly jabbed into her arms any more enjoyable. 

The bath isn't great either. At first a bath almost seemed relaxing and Allura's tub was luxuriously large. Even that was unpleasant though, when Allura dumped in this medicated oil that smelled as pungent as bleach. 

She doesn't itch anymore and that's a blessing but today's events have still soured Pidge's mood. She sits on the floor with her legs drawn up, idly picking at the some scabs on her arms. 

"You don't wanna do that." 

"Go away," she huffs. 

Lance does the opposite and plops down next to her, gently nudging her shoulder. 

"Really, stop that. It'll just take longer to heal." 

"Fine." Pidge quits picking at her scabs and gives him a sidelong glance. "Can I help you?" 

"I was thinking I could help you," he says, "and your scratches, even before I realized you had it out for your scabs." 

He holds up a little beaten box with a red T-rex on the cover. Pidge snorts and grins a bit despite herself. 

"Where did you get dinosaur bandaids?" 

"Had them in my pocket when we found Blue." Lance taps a finger against the box. "Present from my nephew. You could use a few." 

Pidge looks between the colorful box and the ugly scratches on her skin. She'd drawn blood but they weren't serious enough to call for a pod. They were everywhere though, everywhere she'd been so desperate to claw the itch away. Even if they're not serious they are unappealing to the eye. They make her think about just how scary having such a severe itch was and she's irresistibly tempted to pick at her scabs. 

"I want velociraptors," she decides. "Are there any with velociraptors on them?" 

"Well let's see." Lance dumps the box on the floor and starts sorting through them. Pidge just watches, already knowing the answer when he shakes his head. "Luck is just not on your side today, huh?" 

"Guess not," Pidge sighs out. "I'll take the triceratops though. They're second best." 

Lance peels them out of the individual wrappers and passes them off to her, one by one. Pidge sticks them on, one by one, until every triceratops in the box is covering one of her cuts. She supposes she's a little old for dinosaur bandaids but they're better to look at than the scratches and they'll keep her from picking. 

"Thanks." 

"It's nothing." Lance gives an easy smile and pats her on the back. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm way deeper in this fandom than I planned to be...


End file.
